


the devil's got my arms

by auraofdawn



Series: Grip [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dadgil, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Devil May Cry 5, Road Trips, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 91,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auraofdawn/pseuds/auraofdawn
Summary: Taking down the Qliphoth was just step one of the Sparda Family Apology Tour. Step two was help Nero. Step three, kill demons. Step four? Act like an actual fucking family? That might be the most difficult of all.
Relationships: Dante & Nero (Devil May Cry), Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Kyrie/Nero (Devil May Cry), Nero & Nico (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: Grip [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699264
Comments: 161
Kudos: 366





	1. and it pulls me back into the night

> _The Grave, dread thing!_  
>  _Men shiver when thou’rt nam’d: nature appall’d_  
>  _Shakes off her wonted firmness._  
>  \- Robert Blair, 1743

**02 December 5:25 PM | Red Grave City**

Nero always gets a bad feeling at night. 

At first it was simply a childish fear; what you can’t see could only hurt you, couldn’t it? The Order’s preaching about demons certainly didn’t help, and going back every week to hear what was new and sinful only served to provide his young mind with evolving nightmares. Only when he had learned to ignore the sermons altogether did the world go out and bring him something new to fear. 

The Order’s warnings were no joke—at least in the realm of actual demons. Nero had been eight when he actually got to see his first one—a tiny, weak thing that was so insignificant it wasn’t considered part of any tier. But to behold thick, scaled flesh and claws sharpened to a point with fresh blood dripping off them—it was more than enough to frighten a child out of their boots. 

When he had finally grown old enough to join the Order—to join Credo, rather—was he unsurprised to learn the truth: demons existed in kind, and they often threatened the island. Would he be strong enough to help defend against them?

_Fuck yeah._

But then Kyrie had been put into danger, Credo died right in front of him, and the entire island threatened to fall apart all around them. At that point, stabbing His Holiness countless times hadn't felt like enough. But mutilating the corpse of an evil man wouldn't bring stability back to the only home Nero had ever known. Direct action, protection— _that_ would right the island before it could slide into the ocean. 

He didn't realize it until later, but it had been therapeutic for he and Kyrie to throw themselves headfirst into spearheading aid for their home. But it had also been infuriating at first, to see some citizens _still_ turn up their noses at him when he held boxes of food and clothes for them. He had only singlehandedly (literally!) saved them from Sanctus and the Savior—not to mention the giant demonic horde that had been unleashed in the background! The least they could offer him was acceptance, if not praise. Luckily, it only took the smallest turn of Kyrie’s smile and the occasional flash of Red Queen’s blade to shut them up. 

Soon enough, he learns to tune them out. If wielding the very blood of Sparda himself wasn’t enough to win the trust of some people, then they couldn’t have been worth any at all. 

Some surviving holy knights still tried to fall into rank, seeing how he’d been Credo’s squire, the Order’s personal hitman and the undisputed strongest man left in all Fortuna—they left him in a hard spot. A part of him knew they couldn’t be blamed—they’d been used to a leader, to structure! They’d lost so many and had their entire worldview challenged within the space of days, but Nero couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be Credo and he sure as hell _wouldn’t_ be Sanctus. 

Back then, he just didn’t want anything more to do with the Order. The first thing he’d done after the Savior had fallen to pieces was rip their seal off all the clothing he owned. Kyrie had wordlessly mended the countless rips he’d hastily made, and Nero could only sheepishly ask her to patch over them or simply give the garments away. He was a step away from suggesting they abolish the Order of the Sword altogether—but seeing Kyrie continue to sing hymns while the orphans asked him wide-eyed questions about Sparda—he couldn’t squash that faith. He wanted to believe it once, when he was little, when people like Kyrie and her parents existed, selflessly making the world brighter wherever they went. And now that he knew to a shadow of absolutely no doubt that Sparda had existed, had loved, had a son who fought by the side of strangers for a city he barely knew—so he could fight, too. Peaceful worship couldn’t be condemned, even after everything.

He knew now that he wasn’t ready then, not to lead or even socialize properly. But as usual, Kyrie had helped him figure things out, and the orphans had done what she couldn’t. So Nero would fight for and work with and stay with them, no matter what judgment would come his way. And he would do the same for Red Grave, as long as the phone kept ringing and people kept asking for help. Money would help too, sure, but only so much could be left in a place they now called the Grave. 

Nero takes what he can get, like he always has. (He hasn’t yet developed the ability to say no when a colleague of a certain crew-cut man flags him down and sheepishly asks for assistance. He’s turned into something of a fixer for them, he realized recently. Word spread around the survivors fast, and their superiors were keen to take notice. They always pay well, at least, plus all of them seem impressed and even _happy_ to see him work. It’s weird, being appreciated by those who aren’t Kyrie, children, or nuns, but Nero can get used to it. Probably.) For six months, it all works out okay. 

And then it doesn’t. 

* * *

The phone rings and ring and rings and Nico curses. Wasn’t Nero out of the damn john yet? What was Kyrie feeding him?

It just keeps ringing. She’s thisclose to finishing the polish on a new model of Punchline and if Nero comes back to yell at her for getting grease on the seats again—she’s gonna double her pricing.

But once more and she can only throw her rag down and stomp to the receiver, not even bothering to put her customer service voice on.

_"Devil May Cry?"_

"Is this...the demon hunting business?"

She rolled her eyes. Did anyone even realize that 666 was in the fuckin' phone number? "Depends on if ya got the password, hoss."

"Oh, uh, let me check..."

Nico sighed and tucked the receiver between her ear and shoulder more comfortably. Nero had better come back before they hit heavier traffic or a bad patch of road, because her patience already ran thin with customers—and splitting her attention with driving would only make it worse. When the caller finally stammered out the code Nico clicked her tongue and mentally swore. _Goddammit_ , now she’d have to change route and go wherever this harry hardknocker pointed them—just when she thought they'd get to have a quiet meal for once. 

"New client?" Nero surprised her with the speed in which he leapt into the passenger seat.

"For you, yeah," Nico all but shoved the phone into his face.

Nero rolled his eyes and took it, putting his nicest customer service voice on for the worried caller. He let the voice ramble for awhile like always—humans rarely knew what they were encountering, so reading between the lines had become a skill they both learned to refine. 

"The sunken district?" he repeated loud enough for Nico to take the hint and shift the van's olden gears. The engine roared loudly to life and they were off, Nero's right arm already braced on the dashboard for the bumpy ride.

Upon arrival neither Nero nor Nico could immediately see what was wrong; the district formerly known as simply Red Grave Port had flooded far worse than it was during their assault on the Qliphoth over the summer, and the icing over of some more shallow areas made traversal next to impossible. Nevertheless, Nero realized, an area this empty would be the perfect hunting grounds for any demon, not just the stealthier ones that often dared into more populated districts. 

But the caller had been a fisherman who reported rumors of boats running into demon trouble the closer they attempted to dock in the area. Nero had not encountered many water-based demons in his day, so his curiosity was highly piqued, but he didn't exactly hold his breath. Lots of Red Grave callers exaggerated, and he was used to rolling up to "ferociously frightening frights" only to encounter a nest of wild animals or a demon of the lowest tier. Nico was always annoyed and as much as Nero was too, he couldn't bring himself to entirely fault them. A power-sucking demonic tree had wrecked their entire city for a month—they had a right to be a little anxious even after the thing had been cut down. There was no way in hell even the entire staff of Devil May Cry could have taken out every single demon that had escaped through the portal for those long weeks—even now that their staff amounted to a whopping four, including Nico, who only dared to kill demons that stood in the van's path.

Fortunans had been just as skittish those first few months post-Savior, but their need for Nero's new skills had helped embolden him to succeed in his own demon-hunting business, alongside Dante's blessing to use his odd name. He'd never questioned it immensely, mostly because the man was like a lock box with personal history and treated everything else like a joke. Of course, he'd had plenty of reasons that Nero knew now, but dwelling on it only pissed him off. It wasn't the people of Red Grave's fault that being in their city seemingly doomed his family to bad memories, just like it wasn't the people of Fortuna's fault that the Order of Sword had become so corrupt. The many didn't deserve to be punished for the sins of the few, but it did fall to those few like Nero and Dante to do the punishing.

And punish them they did. 

Finding a nest of empusas had been easy enough, and even the few stray cainas that showed up proved to be something of a chore, but none were of the kind that Nero would have attributed to "ghastly ghouls.” They were generic; suited to any environment. None of them were built to interrupt docking or late fishing hours as the caller had complained. 

Either way, he had killed some demons and that was his job. The only thing left to do was get paid. 

“Done already?” Nico teased through a cloud of smoke. 

Nero scoffed and ducked through the smoke quickly, lest its stench stick to his clothes any more than usual. 

To Nico’s credit, she didn’t question her partner’s quick and quiet escape into the van. She only took one last long drag from her cigarette and swept into the driver’s seat with the smoke cloud following in quick trails. 

The fisherman had asked them to take care of the problem before he was to go out for the night; if they finished soon enough, he would pay them before shoving off, and Nero was keen get paid and hit the hay early tonight. If he was lucky, he could maybe get a long nightly call with Kyrie before the time difference and the orphans could squash his hopes. But he lets his head wander too far into the clouds—so much so that he double takes and has to check with Nico for confirmation that the man on the dock is indeed their client. 

Nero had never really paid attention to _Moby Dick_ —the white whale had been yet another topic his bullies used as fodder—but he knew enough to see this guy as a regular Captain Ahab. A beard that told more stories than his crooked teeth could and half his weight made out of oversized straps and goulashes. The second he spotted the van’s bright neon sign he practically waddled over, and Nero found himself bracing for a monologue as winded as those the nuns gave back home. 

“You have any trouble with the Grave?” the fisherman asked.

Nero’s furrowed brows met the man, though he didn’t dwell on it. He kept forgetting all the new nicknames the locals kept giving to the districts. The Port was now the Sunken Place, the subway was now the Shell, Red Grave itself was simply the Grave, which bothered Nero the most. He had to keep reminding himself that people had chosen to stay and gawk at the Qliphoth roots in the beginning--they’d had their chance to run and they'd chosen not to until it was too late. Those that were caught in the simple act of trying to live--a flash of that single red balloon caught in the twisted, pollenized hands of a child in the shopping district always haunted him—those were the true victims. V had saved a lot of people too, Nero had to keep reminding himself. They might not have even gotten a shot at Urizen or the tree if he hadn't stayed behind.

His leaving, after all was said and done, was a different, more aggravating story that Nero certainly couldn’t dwell on while trying to make nice with a client. 

“Nothing we couldn’t handle!” Nico piped up proudly, a cloud of smoke already forming around her. 

The fisherman seemed unimpressed. “Did you find them?” he pressed further. 

“A nest of some empusas, a few smaller grunts. Nothing big enough to bother you for the moment,” Nero told him. 

“N-no, these were big suns’abitches—big enough to dance with!”

“Dancing with a demon? Man, you’ve been out at sea too long!” Nico chortled. 

“I’d swear it on Sparda himself! The whole ship would, too!”

Nero rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in him if I were you.”

Nico keeled over and Nero sent a warning elbow in her direction. The fisherman merely shook his head at the both of them. 

“It wasn’t just demons either, y'know. A lot of wild lights—that’s the only reason we saw ‘em—and the shadows of beasts that looked like nothin' natural for sure! If yer young eyes had only seen what these have, kiddo,” the man sneered, a twitch in his wild gaze, “you’d wish you hadn’t!”

Nero smirked. If only people knew. “Yeah, yeah, well...job’s done for now. If you do see heads or tails of anything, just call us again.”

“Ya don’t have a business card? No advertising?”

Nero pointed at the neon signage. “Most people just take a picture of the van.”

The fisherman gawked and shook his head in the way only bewildered old men seemed to do. “Devil May Cry? What kinda name is that?”

Nero shrugged. “It’s a family business. My uncle picked it out.”

“The hell possessed him to give it a name like that?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Nero hissed through clenched teeth, “he’s not around to ask.”

The fisherman actually frowned. “Oh, uh... sorry bout that. I’ll get yer payment for ya then.” He hurried off awkwardly.

Nero closed his eyes and huffed out the breath he’d been holding far too tightly. But his shoulders refused to unwind easily, and he spun back into the van in a flash. 

“Yo, bro,” Nico called uneasily. 

“Just get the guy’s money so we can go,” Nero snapped, the slam of the door punctuating his order. 

Nico sighed and dropped her cig, watching the embers fade slowly in the cold, wet dirt at her feet. 

* * *

Night grew darker and colder. Nico complained of hunger and their usual stash of reheated food and stopped at a fish ‘n chips place. Nero didn’t have the energy to pick any more fights with her, despite her spending some of the money they’d only just earned. He just stayed in the van and closed his eyes, hoping for a nap but instead finding his demons. 

For years he had dreamed of having a family to call his own; when one had finally taken pity on him he was grateful, though even their happiness was doomed to be brief. He swore to protect what was left of it, and even that he managed to fail at. 

When his actual, real, living family had all but fallen into his lap (and stabbed him, punched him, and ripped off his arm), he froze. People had always told him he was lucky to not have a family. _They’re more trouble than they’re worth_ , some would say. They’d just drive you _crazy_ , others warned. Perhaps, a few cruel souls said, any family that could’ve spawned a demonic freak of nature like him would only be worse than none at all. 

He almost wanted to believe them. In the cruelest way, they actually made some sense. Those harsh words explained why he must have been abandoned, why he looked and felt so different from humans, why his nerves went haywire whenever demons were near. No human parents would want the curse of a child like he, and no demonic sires would dare let him live long. 

The rumors of prostitutes or demonic curses never bothered Nero because he knew the truth had to be far more painful. The only bright side he’d ever found on the entire surface of the thought was that he would probably never know. Kyrie has been instrumental in finding a shred of peace there, but it was better than spending forever wondering. Credo had taught him the value of what he could see, could learn, could clash with. It made working for the Order easy, despite how much he tired of their teachings. Nero didn't really doubt that Sparda existed—demons stalking the earth were proof enough—but all the nonsense of his glorious power and righteous heart went a bit overboard in his opinion. The Order dwelled so much on what they thought of Sparda, of what he was _said_ to have _said_ or _done_ or _implied_ —it had all become nonsense. It distracted people from the very real threat demons played _right now_ , and fooled them into falling to their knees in prayer instead of standing up to run or fight. 

No matter how Nero had come to have been born with these superhuman instincts and strength, he would use them to protect the innocent and those few who saw enough of the human in him to know he posed no threat. 

So of course as soon as he has (most of) his self-confidence issues sorted out, his family finally decides to show up. 

Both of them are right bastards, of course, but he could have seen that outcome a mile away. And he'd been right about how the complete truth would continue to evade him; his mother is still MIA, and it seemed her side of the story would remain forever outside his reach. But that was fine, since it appeared his father’s side of the story was far more pressing. 

If anything, it was all too easy to hate Vergil. The man was guilty of destroying not one but two cities with his penchant for raising towering behemoths of demonic power. He'd tried to kill his own brother countless times along the way and he'd torn his own son's arm off for the latter. Granted, he hadn't known Nero's true identity when said arm-snatching had happened, but Nero wasn't convinced that the information would've stopped the dying Son of Sparda from saving himself. 

Dante, however, had known for five whole-ass years and chosen to hide the truth from his dear nephew. Sure, he'd been so kind as to allow Nero to keep Yamato—his _rightful_ inheritance, not a gift to be given on a whim—but he'd made no attempt to educate him on its true nature. Had he known the katana was vital to keeping the demon world and human world separate? Uh, duh. Did he have any idea that it could open inter-dimensional portals? Hell no! Sure, Vergil being a power-crazed psycho might have been a lot to digest, but it fit the pieces of the puzzle that made up Nero’s abandonment. A part of him was certainly glad to not have been raised by a man who could have been tempted to tear off an arm if it meant becoming more powerful. 

It was much better than dwelling in the what-ifs again.... what if becoming a father was exactly what could have swayed him from jumping into hell? From raising any kind of demonic tower? From leaving the side of a woman who perhaps wouldn't have abandoned her son if the father had been present? Would Nero have gotten the chance to live as a child with two parents, and, if his mind felt especially greedy, an energetic uncle who doted on him where his stilted father couldn't?

Nero could only shut his eyes and shake his head. Such thoughts only belonged behind closed eyelids, and he wasn't the daydreaming type usually. The engine of the van was only roaring louder and louder, Nico's wild driving getting as bumpy as ever, and he needed all the rest he could get if he was going to live up to the one standard they'd left for him.

_"We're trusting you with things on this side, capisce?”_

That was the one legacy he was happy to live up to. Sparda had done it, two-thousand-plus years ago, and peace had managed to live on long enough that he had settled down and had a family. If Nero wanted to do the same, he was more than up to the task.

"Hey, you still with us in the land of the living, tough guy?"

She could read him too damn well. But he feigned a yawn and stretched anyway. "'m fine, Nico. Keep your eyes on the road."

"Just checkin' in. Thought I lost you for a bit"

“I never have been.”

“Says the guy who starts drooling whenever Kyrie walks in,” Nico snickered. 

“I do not!” Nero scowled despite the blush growing across his nose. 

“Do too!”

“Grow up, Nico!”

“You first!”

“You’re older than me!”

“Am I?” She cocked her jaw out stupidly yet seriously, wide brown eyes boring holes into his sanity. 

Nero’s eyes narrowed and cinched up with the lines in his forehead and eyebrows as Nico’s deadpan serious face stared challengingly through him. A scoff escaped him and he broke the eye contact, settling tiredly back into his seat while Nico let out a single victorious chuckle. 

God, she was so insufferable when she won, or when she thought she did, anyway. Arguing with Nico was as lost a cause as arguing with the orphans back home, the _actual_ children in his life, and not the annoying older sister type he was stuck with day in and day out. He was never _actually_ mad at Nico—her occasionally good jokes and surprisingly refined taste in music made that hard—but did she ever relish teasing the ever-living demon out of him. Literally. 

In his huff Nero refused to look her way, so he picked a spot in his window and focused on it, watching the deadened branches of leaf-less trees pass by in tandem with the remains of tattered buildings and miraculously untouched ones. Every now and then a still-functioning streetlight shone like a beacon in the remains of the once-thriving city, and each one called to him in time. 

In the far in between, one stood out: a green in a uniform showing of yellow-white. A traffic light? Out here in the port where there were no public highways, and most of the infrastructure had been irreparably destroyed? The fisherman had explained that their operations, what little few they could run these days, were pushed far out to sea, far beyond what the human eye could see from shore. 

So what on earth would be shining as bright as a lighthouse in the wrong color and place?

“Nico...” he started, because that was all he usually needed to say. 

“I see it,” she affirmed, all traces of humor wiped from her voice. 

A firm pull of the gear shift and they were off in a new direction, chasing the light into a threatening darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why but I get very chaotic Zendaya as MJ vibes from Nico lmao she’s 100% the type to say stupid shit knowingly just to throw people off and I’m diving headfirst into that ok.
> 
> anyway, this is my big post-dmc5 headcanon dump that i started after binging the entire series back in APRIL lmao. it took awhile to actually figure out a plot for it but i feel ok with it enough to start now. previews, updates, and more thoughts will probably spill over onto my [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/auraofdawn). I'm aiming for weekly updates right now so hopefully this friday slot works out lol


	2. tomorrow spills across the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero's had a long, busy day, but its only about to get messier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry (almost) Christmas! And even if you don't celebrate, here's some awkward family time for you :)

> _Ah! how dark_   
>  _Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes,_   
>  _Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,_
> 
> \- The Grave, Robert Blair, 1743

**?:?? | The Underworld**

Dante was such a hard sleeper. Always had been, always would be. As a child he had possessed the freakish ability to fall asleep anywhere at anytime in any position. It seemed he carried that ‘skill’ far too adeptly into adulthood. Mother had once caught him falling asleep standing up, with only one elbow supporting his tiny seven-year-old frame upon his sheet music stand while his guitar pick fell out of his slack fingers. 

Vergil humphed. Of course his rude brother would have fallen asleep during his violin solo, though their mother tried to re-frame it as his playing being so soothing that it had knocked Dante out. His childish instincts had liked the idea of being able to lower the defenses of his enemies with music alone, but as he had grown into the crueler world he had learned that such tactics were pointless. Only pure refined battle instincts would serve a warrior well in a duel, and anything else was just folly. 

Still, all he wanted was to show Mother how well he had mastered his latest piece. She had been so entranced by his focused, delicate notes and the smile on her face had been so worth the long hours of practice he had done on his own. Then her eyes wandered to the side for a _brief_ moment, and that was the end. Dante had managed to ruin the moment, as usual. 

He had the same stupid face while he slept now: nose crinkled and jaw slackened, drool slipping down his beard. His hair wildly framed him and occasionally flew in the light waves the hammock created in tandem with his breathing. 

_The fool_ , Vergil thought, remembering the gigantic grin his little brother had borne when he figured out how to take the discarded capes of long-dead wraiths and tie them into hammocks useful for his intermittent naps when things got especially quiet. 

And they were. Alarmingly so, considering they were not only human-passing beings in hell, but also known as the Sons of Sparda. Vergil would have at least expected some decent challenges from those who recognized him as king of the underworld still, but none such had tried of yet. At least, none that had managed to get more than a few words out before he or his twin cut the pretender down. 

All he could do was assure Dante that he was on watch and would wake him at the first sign of trouble, or if he was itching to fight another duel. All the while his twin would sleep like dead he refused to join. Such a luxury it was, yet also wasted time. But they both ran out of stamina occasionally, and opposed to sitting and staring at each other awkwardly, this was the better solution. 

Vergil certainly wasn’t about to talk to his brother, no, _no_. Every sentence that came out of Dante’s mouth that wasn’t a threat or a joke was a waste of breath. His banter had if anything gotten more reckless over the years of their separation and Vergil had no intention of encouraging it. He would challenge his twin in every way, but he would not let him blather on if it meant delaying their fights. Dante was tactical and foolish like that, but he still had the reflexes to keep Vergil from ever taking full advantage. It was so _frustrating_. The fruit had promised him unimaginable power--power greater than their father and Mundus simply in name--but all it had given him was a rebirth. And Dante; troublesome, annoying, persistent, _Dante_ , still managed to pull even with him. Their duel currently was still tied, and every second Dante wasted by floundering about in some way or another was more time they could have been deciding it. Brother versus brother, as they had been from birth and seemingly were always destined to be.

And yet here Vergil was, simply watching his brother sleep like a helicopter parent. Blast it. 

Sometimes, when he held Yamato especially close and leaned his back and neck into something firm--not unscrupulously soft and fragile like his brother preferred—he could catch some hints of dreamless sleep. (Always dreamless now; he had taken explicit care of his nightmares, yet he still seemed to lack the peace necessary for dreams.) Usually when Dante was still up, never when they both were resting. Someone had to be conscious should some especially stealthy demons show up to take advantage. Not that _any_ advantage would help demons stand a second longer against the blood of Sparda, but there was still a reputation to uphold. Even if it meant playing with their prey simply to make the fight last a few memorable moments longer. 

Then a wave crashes through his spine, snapping his neck up so quickly he actually hears a painful crack. It could have been familiar, if it lasted longer than a second, but Vergil felt immediately sure that this wasn't simply a demonic presence. It felt like... power.

"Wake up, you buffoon," Vergil kicked his brother's dangling foot.

Dante jerked up in the middle of a loud snore and groaned. "Where's the fire?"

"Under your rear, I hope," Vergil searched the skyline, forcing his senses to focus more specifically. "There's something afoot."

"Good morning to you too, brother," Dante yawned. He raised his arms and stretched out slowly, refusing to leave the comfort of his hammock so soon.

"Save your jokes. That wave of energy was larger than usual."

"Must be if its got you worried," Dante snorted.

Vergil only glared. He still couldn't pinpoint a direction and it was beginning to frustrate him. Following an demonic energy source like this hadn't been so difficult since he was nothing but a walking corpse trying to grasp the pulse of Yamato's power through an olden island city. But he certainly didn't intend to repeat that mistake.

"I'll find it by myself if you need to continue your laziness." 

And there it was. Another ripple of power, spilling out and cutting the air like a shock wave. If they were lesser demons it would've crashed into them, knocking them off their feet. But Sons of Sparda only felt such power like a light breeze; easy to ignore, but annoying in the right circumstances. 

"Man," Dante gasped, his brow gaining an uncomely furrow. He looked just like Vergil when he did so, not that either of them would ever admit it. "I haven't felt something like that since the last time I was here," he continued. 

Vergil frowned. He certainly hadn't seen or felt his brother when he'd still been trapped in hell. But that proved just how vast it was, that those as infamous as the Sons of Sparda could come and go without knowledge of the other. "When was that?"

"Before I met the kid. Some jerk opened a portal and I hung out for a bit until—" his eyes went steely and began frantically searching the horizon as his brother just had.

"Until what, Dante?" Vergil studied his brother with the utmost seriousness.

"A demon opened another portal with a shard of Yamato."

Both of them glanced at the katana in Vergil's grasp, its black _saya_ as spotless and strong as the day Nero had restored it. 

* * *

**02 December 9:48 PM | Red Grave City Port**

Nero’s been a demon hunter for awhile now, but he’d like to reach the point where he stops seeing new things sooner than later. The Qliphoth provided a gigantic dose of that, but it seemed to be far from done even all these months later. 

He and Nico roll up on the green light, only to find it surrounded by demons. They assume they’re brawling or hunting, in the dim eerie light, only to come closer and find them...dancing? It was the only way either of them could fathom the sight of several Nobodies writhing about separately from each other, their disembodied limbs shaking to some unknown rhythm. So the fisherman had been right on the nose, but Nero wasn't about to enable the guy to tell more tall tales.

Would it have been crass to say he’d rather have found some demons trying to eat each other? That was a much easier sight to stomach than whatever the hell was happening here. 

Regardless, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little glad to find something worth fighting. Nobodies were anything but their name; wild, unpredictable amalgams of demonic limbs flailing about for their next victim. Nico had been badgering him to bring back a piece of one for her research, but he wasn't crazy about getting a new Devil Breaker that would make those sickening gurgling noises. And if he wanted to fling bombs around, he already had Overture charged and ready.

The Nobodies don't seem to notice him, what with their private light show demanding their limited brain cells, but Nero isn't about to let them be. His nerves are going haywire, more than they ever had for a group of Nobodies, so he raises the glowing light of Overture to look even further. The water around the ruins of the port is crashing hard with little to no wind about.

It has to be the light, he thinks, the shifting from orange to green and back lit the demons up like a police siren. If anything, he was grateful for the lighting; it would make inspecting his handiwork that much easier. The suspicious splashing suggested that there were more lurking about, but either way Red Queen was demanding to be set free, and Blue Rose itched at his trigger finger desperately. It had been over all too quick earlier; his prey too weak and too predictable. Hopefully, these would pull in some good thrills and spills.

"Well,” he caught the demons’ attention, “you guys are no white whales, but I'll hunt you down all the same!"

The Nobodies let out something that sounded like a psychotic laugh. If Nero were as light-hearted as Dante, he would’ve loved it, but it only grossed him out. Whatever. As long as he could cut them down. 

Red Queen’s heat clawed at his spine and up his arm, his demonic wings begging to be set lose. And so he did. 

One, two, three and a dodge and a turn. One Nobody down. Another tried to leap on his back, but a half-turn is all he needs to shove Blue Rose into its face, blowing both of them back with a single blast of its powerful two-shot. For surety's sake, he emptied the rest of the clip into it, watching until the last of its ungainly limbs twitched. He took his chance and grabbed a fist full of another’s limbs with his bringer, twisting them like a braid and yanking backwards.

"Have some of this!" he whooped, the dying cry of the demon echoing out.

With the Nobodies cleared out, the light show brightened the clearing enough to reveal the seals from which they’d apparently come from. And just as Nero was about to set his sword down, he could feel the arrival of another wave on its way to challenge him. He revved it to max and waited, the blood literally bubbling at his feet. 

The wind that had been suspiciously missing all night arrived abruptly and violently. A wall of ocean spray dampened his hair and stuck his coat to his limbs, and a surge of annoyed lightning seemed to spark within Overture. He wasn't totally sure how waterproof the breakers were, though he certainly knew to be careful with the one powered by _lightning_. 

Nearby, he heard a slam and turned to see the van's headlights as Nico flashed them—their code for _I'm okay, are you_?

Nero blinked the cold burn of saltwater mist out of his eyes and summoned his wings to do the motioning his cupped hands couldn't:

_I'm fine; stay down_ , his wing-arms waved.

The headlights flashed once more and he could just make out a thumbs up from Nico as she ducked out of sight of the windshield.

Now it's his turn to get back to work.

In one motion he pulled his hood up and yanked Blue Rose out of her holster, spinning a one-eighty into the maw of a Riot that was blasted back immediately. A pair to its left fell in the crossfire and were carried even farther back by the angry wind. Another spin was all Nero needed to reload and reach for Red Queen, the flames from her engine drying his arm immediately. 

Three more shots into a Judecca shut up its call for reinforcements, and the sword began demanding the shore for herself. Nero couldn’t help but smile as his Red Queen slashed through the head of a Fury while its exhaust finished off another Riot in the back draft. 

But the wind was too much. Paired with the sting of saltwater and the intermittent darkness he couldn't do much more. Only the neon of the Devil May Cry sign lit up the night but even its thin cursive was beginning to flicker. Another blast of air throws him back into the side of the van, the olden frame rocking with his momentum. He glances towards the window where Nico looks worried, but not panicked. Through the glass he can see her mouth something like, "Need to run?"

_Fuck no_ , he wants to yell, but its been a long day and his head has been awful. Still, he should be better at this by now. If he couldn't handle a few mid-tier demons in a strobe light water tornado, then he was no devil hunter, let alone a Son of Sparda. 

Nero pushed himself off the van and slammed Overture's mine into the first demon he could grab, then drop kicked them straight into the swarm. The smaller ones actually stopped to gawk at their dazed and glowing brethren, while the bigger ones groaned and snarled at the obstacle in their way. A laugh tumbled out of his salty throat as he took his time reloading Blue Rose; she deserved a good finale.

"Say goodnight."

The fireworks that exploded from the bomb included far too much gore for Nero's tastes, but it was pretty in its own way. He just ducked further under his hoodie to make sure the mess didn't get everywhere, but sighed at how much was going to have to apologize to Kyrie for the next wash.

Somehow, the wind remained, though its gales seemed to have calmed down. Only it and the glowing light were left to keep Nero company. 

From a distance it looks like an ornate lamppost, glowing defiantly in demon-infested darkness. Nero had seen such unions of demon and human infrastructure within the twisted tunnels of the Qliphoth. But with no demon tree to be found anymore, this one stands on its own. Then, he realizes, it’s _floating_. 

It’s actually a staff, ornately carved in a twisted design ringed by a cuff of iron-carved skulls and topped by a metallic sun. In its center lies the source of the eerie glow: a blood orange gem that appeared to blaze rather than shine with light. Yet as he reached closer Nero could see the distinctive shine of light being reflected off its surface. In his hand it thrums with energy, yet none of his senses can feel any significant power within. 

“What the hell?” he gaped.

Nico snuck up from behind him, her glasses looking wide as saucers in the reflection of the staff's huge gem. “Oooh, is it a fancy demon decoration?”

“Maybe if you're a dumbass," Nero scoffed. 

"You can hang it up in your garage, then," Nico shot back. 

Nero sighed and internally counted to ten. If he just stopping giving Nico ammo she'd shut up, but then she'd just find new material on her own. His hands instead dug deeper into the handle of the staff, scraping the aged carving against his glove and callused palm. He'd learned from stumbling upon enough freaky artifacts in the Order's possession that stuff like this was never truly ornamental, and typically the prettiest objects held the most dire forms of power. But for the life of him, he could never tell quite how. And now that his bringer was gone... until his new right arm decided to absorb things again, he was stuck guessing. 

"Why do you think they were dancin' round it?" Nico adjusted her glasses. "Cause it looked like a disco ball?"

"Beats me," Nero shrugged.

Yet, the staff still tugged at him, at the internal flame that constantly burned low within. What usually felt like power bottled up in soda form and shaken within his chest began to bubble over with anxiety. He had tried not to unleash it unnecessarily until now--it tended to attract more demons and that wouldn't do for city jobs—but there were times when he didn't have a choice. The demon would literally break free from its human chains, hunting for the blood it craved. He tried not to think too hard on what it meant, how it felt _right_ to set his demon loose on its own kind. As long as he used it to protect the remaining citizens of Red Grave and Fortuna and everywhere in between—it was alright, right? No matter how lost he ever felt amidst the chaos and gore, it was in his blood, his brain, his heart—his _human_ heart that loved Kyrie and respected Credo and wanted to save his family, whether they liked it or not.

This all would have been so much easier if he just had someone to ask these burning half-breed specific questions. Dante had never been a huge help in anything beyond an actual fight, so Nero had never expected that bridge to go very far. But V... _Vergil_ , he (they?) knew everything. Even in his weakened state, he'd had that air about him... as someone who watched the world with keen eyes and could report back things the human eye would miss. Of _course_ someone with a skill like that would turn out to be a right bastard, but it was remarkable nonetheless.

Would he help him, if he were still here? Or would he still be consumed by the need to be above everyone, even his own son? V had been such a good companion; someone he didn't flinch to share the battlefield with, even if he was an odd, silent kind of friend. And yet they weren't _quite_ friends—V was too tight-lipped for that--but the guy still had a presence. One that lent either wisdom or assurance to whichever scenario demanded it. Nero hadn't had that kind of person in his life since.... Credo.

But Nero's a fool for expecting someone to step into that void just because. Sitting around with laments was exactly what had almost fucked Red Grave in the first place, and that's one family tradition he has no intention of following. They're gone, and God only knew what in both worlds could bring them back.

He just digs his palms into the staff and shuts his eyes, willing all his wishful thinking somewhere else— _anywhere else._

The staff agrees. 

* * *

**?:?? | The Underworld**

The Yamato slid slowly back into its _saya_ , the slow _shink_ of its slide a quiet punctuation mark to the field of sliced demons around them. Vergil hummed contentedly and swept a hand through his hair, securing his bangs from the thin wind that whipped around in the wake of his judgement cut. Dante was still wandering around the field, kicking demon sludge and remnants around in search of whatever source of energy brought them here, but he looked bored. Vergil could only huff. Of course the fool wouldn't know what to look for. He'd tried to play with his food, and it fell to the elder twin to clean up his little brother's mess. As usual. 

"Nothing?" Dante asked with exasperation.

"Nothing that you can see," Vergil tsked. 

"Invisible demon would be nothin' new," he countered with a huff. 

"Yet you can’t seem to comprehend the concept of something that can't be seen, but rather felt," Vergil deadpanned. 

His brother's face scrunched up somewhere between insult and confusion. Somehow, even at this age, Dante kept finding new ways to look stupid. If he were not so perplexed by the situation at large, Vergil might have laughed. But he could only frown at the empty clearing, the quiet echoes of the breeze, and his clueless brother. 

"You don't think that was all for nothin?"

The wind would not let up, his hair was still traipsing about far too much for his liking. Yet, there was naught to be seen here, and their swords had stopped swinging about minutes ago. 

"Not likely," Vergil murmured.

But as his eyes scanned the sunless horizon, the dim natural light of the underworld carrying his sight only half as far as his demonic senses could see. The demons had long ago learned to respect the immediate boundaries of the sons of Sparda, lest they be swept aside quickly and without mind, as their endless duels took precedence over all else. Some larger demons that dared approach with auras like those currently disturbing them were dispatched just as seamlessly, and it took even Vergil a few occurrences to realize these were challenges to his throne. That he technically still held, at least as long as he claimed the power of the fruit and no one dared assert themselves as an equal.

Well, all except Dante, who would never dare, let alone care.

But this aura was simultaneously familiar and powerful. Not quite Qliphoth level, but... enticing. He'd assumed it a lure by yet another challenger until they had arrived to a horde that fell just as easily as every other. So what if not in this part of hell, but another circle, could be calling them?

The wind roared louder around them, whipping the twins' hair into a frenzy and blinding them both. Dante shook his head around stupidly, struggling with his overgrown bangs until he pulled it all back, just like Vergil knew to do immediately. The brothers could only share a single, bewildered look as they each held their own within the vortex. It whirled and screamed around them, whipping up the tails of their coats and the dusty remnants of dead demons, blinding them to who, what, or where this thing was. 

As annoying and perplexing as it was, they held firm. And then they could feel something amidst the chaos, amidst the pressure—a pull. It sears a spark of alarm into both twins, their free arms reaching for the precious weapons at their sides, knuckles clenching around the hilts of their swords as the very air threatened to yank them apart.

And then, nothing.

The vortex pulls away from them, shrinking at its core between them and lessening it's pull as its radius spread out further. It concentrated in front of them, spinning in less of a twister and in more of a sphere, compressing itself out of thin air. With the lessened pressure came a calmer air between the twins, their hands freed from protecting their sight and readied on their weapons. They shared another solemn look—a battle-worn, eager glance that matched not in color but in ferocity. The Sons of Sparda stood ready, as they always did.

With its shape sustained, the egg of wind and power cracks, lights breaking free of the wind-blown shell and spilling out in electric tendrils. The gasp of air and light forced both brothers to cover their eyes once more and when sight returned, light had consumed the sphere and stood on its own.

"A portal," Vergil gaped.

"Wanna bet where?" Dante's eyebrows waggled deviously.

Vergil shook his head but knew exactly what he would wager. Not that he was a gambling man—he preferred only absolute odds—but this bet was all but certain. There was only one place they could go; only one soul who would dare to call them.

* * *

**02 December 10:02 PM | Red Grave City Port**

For a moment, Nero wondered if he had just fucked up. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

The staff’s glow fired up enough to blind him and nearly pushed him all the way into the van again. It escaped his grasp as the wind kicked up again, and he could only screw his eyes shut against another blast of sea salt and air. Even behind his eyelids he could see spots of green and orange, taking on shapes he could feel through a chill in his spine. It was just too damn bright, so much so he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

Then, everything just stops. 

Just as it had that early evening in April, Nero's right arm screamed the truth at him. Only this time, he knew exactly how to listen.

From a portal of light and wind stepped two figures, covered in grime and the works. For a moment there was only silence, as the portal dimmed behind them and they planted themselves firmly on the ground, wet with saltwater and blood. Nero should scream and glare, or shoot them, honestly. But he can only think about how dramatic entrances seem to run in the family. And this is _his family_. These matching red and blue idiots are all he has, and they're both right in front of him for only the second time ever. Yet, he can only think of their firsts: 

The first thing his father had ever said to him was “thank you.” The first thing his father did to him was rip his arm off. Right now, they’re somewhat neutral. 

The first thing his uncle had done was point a gun at him. Granted that was after he had kicked him in the face, but in Nero's defense, he had totally deserved it. 

Needless to say, manners weren’t really a thing in their family, and the tension was always high. So the screaming actually feels appropriate.

_Get him!!_ A new wave of demons screeched, diving in on the standoff.

_He who defeats the king inherits the throne!_

_I will be king!_

_I WILL!_

"Whoa, hey, is that any way to greet royalty?" a cocky voice teased.

"Move, Dante," an annoyed one ordered.

“I’m just tryin' to clear the throne room for you, your highness!”

Vergil released half a judgement cut, arcing around Dante’s careless frame and carving a path through the wall of demons. Gore and filth flew about, staining the ground red like a carpet. 

“Then do so _out of my way_.”

“Whatever you say, o king of stench and filth!”

And off Dante went, dancing alongside his sword in bursts of sparks and flame. At least, it looked like dancing until the blood and wild grunts filled the air.

Nero can only sigh. It had to be them, of course. 

"Look alive, you golden oldies!"

"Hey, kid!" Dante greeted with a sideways grin.

Vergil only glanced. 

Nero tries not to think about how his veins freeze for a good second until he can hide behind a scowl. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

"Lotta demons partying together usually means bigger and badder things afoot,” Dante sent a slew of summoned swords to finish the fight in his stead as he leaned on the handle of his namesake sword, “so we took a look." 

“The barrier between worlds was broken by something," Vergil's brows furrowed as he regarded his son fully for the first time in six months. "Did you summon us?"

"No!" Nero snaps, but they just look at him funny. He already hates this. He's used to being an orphan, not a son-slash-nephew. "It was this... thing."

He held out the staff, its gem now barely glowing like a dying flame. Vergil squints at it thoughtfully, slowly reaching for it like a professor. Dante snatches it up with a gasp.

"Hey, I know this thing!"

"Dante!" Vergil snapped.

"What?" he twirled the artifact like a fucking baton girl, barely even looking at the thing. "This don't look like one of those fancy demon decorations?"

"That's exactly why _I_ was looking at it," Vergil ripped the staff from his twin's hands and glowered at him just for the pettiness of it. 

Nero swore he heard a tiny whine escape his uncle's throat. _God_. 

"Do I have to separate you two again?"

Vergil hardly paid his son attention, shockingly, while Dante scoffed and grinned stupidly.

“At least let me say hi before ya do, Nero!” Nico all but sprinted in, the wild grin on her face matching the bird’s nest her hair had become. 

“Oh hey,” Dante smirked and scratched his head, “uhhh... Nina?”

“Nico,” she corrected. “Goldstein.”

“Nicoletta,” Vergil regarded her oddly. 

“So ol’ V really is in there somewhere, huh?” she laughed, looking the dark slayer up and down. 

He took a weary step back under her gaze, but said nothing. 

Nero wants to combust. But _somebody_ should be the adult, and he has to ask: “So you don’t know anything about those demons? Or that staff?” 

“I know it from somewhere,” Dante scratched at his beard absently, "can't remember where, though."

"Of course," father and son scoffed, then froze, then frowned.

Nico, as usual, bulldozes past all the awkwardness. "You don't think those demons were doin' some sort of wild summoning dance for your fam here?"

"They said they were after the king of hell," Nero coughed. 

Dante pointed at his twin. "That’d be your old man."

"Really?"

"The fruit. It’s the underworld’s oldest and most revered custom." Vergil explained. "Whomever wins the fruit of the Qliphoth earns the throne."

"Why the hell would they still try to fight you?" Nero scoffed.

"Insolence, overconfidence, death wishes—even pure unadulterated pride. None of them were a challenge."

"So you’ve just been ruling hell this whole time." 

“Technically,” Vergil raised his chin regally.

Nico pointed a cigarette butt in Nero’s direction. “Does that make him the prince of darkness?”

“No!” The Sons of Sparda all snapped. 

The mechanic threw her arms up and marched back into the van. Vergil, Dante, and Nero all regarded each other wearily, a silent shock settling in their heightened nerves. 

“So...” Nero scratched his nose quickly, “you guys stayin’ for good?”

_Or are you going to disappear on me again_ , he didn’t say. 

The twins shared a look. Dante just smirked and shrugged, switch-flipping as expertly as usual. Vergil narrowed his already thin eyes. 

"There’s no challenge left there for me, I suppose," Vergil admitted. "And the sooner I regain my privacy, the better.”

“C’mon brother!" Dante elbowed him in the side. "You didn’t like camping in the asphodel fields? I know you liked those flowers!"

"They certainly _bloomed_ in the face of your companionship."

Dante let out a healthy laugh and slapped his brother on the back, earning an eye roll in return. 

The twins walk past Nero and into the van as if they'd just been waiting to be picked up like a normal-ass father and uncle. The young devil hunter fully gawks, watching the two of them continue bickering lightly over which seats are less dirty or more comfortable and Nico is all grins, her social battery being charged with every laugh and sneer she coaxes out of them.

Nero sighs. He's just sentenced himself to hell, apparently. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOTTA STOP THERE JFC i hope the reunion is enough bc i had a lot more planned for this part and then realized it was speeding past 5k and did some creative copy-pasting :///// next time we get into the ~drama~ and maybe a bit more plot. idk. it depends on if i go over again lmao
> 
> if anyone actually knows what the staff is, congrats! you have a better memory than old man dante!


	3. a harsh reminder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante and Vergil return to a world very different from the one they left. Nero begins to think he may have been better off as an orphan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody call for more world building? Yay? Nay? Too late you’re getting it anyway

> _See yonder hallow’d fane! the pious work_   
>  _Of names once fam’d, now dubious or forgot,_   
>  _And buried ’midst the wreck of things which were:_   
>  _There lie interred the more illustrious dead._
> 
> \- _The Grave_ , Robert Blair, 1743

**03 December 12:10 AM | Red Grave City**

For a long moment Nero thinks the searing of the chilly saltwater and sharp winter wind can’t be any worse than this. He can stand here in the doorway as long as he wants to, and then maybe his ridiculous uncle and dick of a father will just disappear again, leaving him to what little peace Nico would allow him. It wasn't a crazy dream, he thought. But neither were the ones that assumed he wouldn't see his family again for years, if ever.

Six months suddenly wasn't nearly enough time to think about just what the hell he’s supposed to do with them now.

"Hey, jackass, shut the door!" Nico finally decides for him, "you're lettin’ all the warm out!"

He scowled but did as he was told. Even with his partner's propensity for not giving a shit about her clothes or the weather, she certainly coveted the van's heater. When it worked it suffered to provide much help for Red Grave's winter, and even worked hard to keep up with Fortuna's considerably warmer conditions.

Hell, Nero had even considered asking Kyrie to sew a fuzzy liner into his hoodie, but actually affording the fabric would be in question, and he certainly didn't want to take anything away from the orphans. He could manage just fine, usually. But right now? Ten minutes into welcoming his father and uncle back from the underworld? He's already at a loss for how to manage a pair of reckless old men. 

Dante makes a show of crashing on the couch immediately, relaxation settling heavily into the wrinkles of his forehead and pleased smirk. He disturbed a pile of empty pizza boxes in his wake but made no move to pick them up or otherwise.

Vergil, meanwhile, just stands there. Menacingly, he'd say if he were a complete stranger. But like V before him, he seemed to be taking the entire scene in no matter how long it took him, and this was sure taking awhile. He made no move except for his cool grey eyes slowly darting to and fro—from the Dante-level-messy couch to Nico's busy desk to the dirty dinette set behind the driver's seat--nothing was clear or clean, because, well, it didn't have to be. Nero and Nico were the only ones here, lately. When they needed a spot, they cleared it out and that was it. Occasionally one did bitch about it to the other, but they knew they were equally to blame. It was always a quick, easy frustration that passed as neatly as a load of dishwashing did, in those rare days it happened.

_You bicker like siblings_ , Kyrie had remarked once, because she was the only one who would know. 

They both had firmly denied it, but the songstress just smiled and nodded, replying more with her eyes than she ever did with her words. 

And either of them could only look at each other and glower all they wanted—but not say anything, no, no, _noooo_. 

Never mind Nico called him 'little bro' more than he cared to rebuke her for. 

Never mind he had stopped asking when she needed the spare room at his house. 

It was better to not get caught up in each other's affairs, what with how fucked up their actual families are. They both knew it was better off ignored. For example:

"You just gonna stand there all night or take a seat?" he scoffed at his stony father. 

Vergil didn't even turn. Nero pushed past him roughly and sank into the passenger seat without looking back. Nico took her co-pilot's presence as her queue to drive, and the van shook as it shoved off from the shore. 

After another long moment, Nero heard the creak of the dinette's seat alongside a huff. _Finally_.

Dante, sensing the tension, goes straight for his nephew's attention. “So how's business been?”

“Frequency, pretty good," Nero shrugged. "But in demon terms, pretty bad.”

Dante's brow furrowed uncharacteristically.

“Every time we go out for a job we wind up with two more," Nero explained, thinking back to those chaotic first few weeks. "So we stay out for days at a time, check back in at home when things slow down. The demons haven’t really cut back since you cut down the tree and it’s been a pain in the ass.”

“But the money’s been good, right?”

“Is that all you care about?” Nero scowled. “People are still suffering!”

“Yeah, yeah, but how else are we hunters supposed to make a living? Everyone has to! I just happen to be doing a public service with mine.”

Nero scoffed. Nice to know his uncle hadn’t changed at all. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, old man.”

“Speaking of, I need to catch up on that," Dante let out a huge yawn, stretching his arms out with a gasp. "You too, Verge.”

Vergil hummed, but didn’t grant his brother the privilege of a glance. 

Yet Dante kept on. “You took every lookout down south, but the kid's here so you don’t need to anymore.”

“I didn’t ask for your input.”

“You get it for free, then!”

"Why don't y'all just hitch a ride with us?" Nico beamed proudly, like it was the most obvious answer. "We usually kick it at a place nearby."

Nero hissed silently but Nico's round face just scrunched up with confusion. _What?_ she seemed to say. _What's the deal?_

Did he really have to spell it out for her?

Dante was already in the process of laughing her off. “You guys don't wanna be seen with us, I'm sure.”

“If I recall correctly, this isn't exactly a place for shelter,” Vergil glanced out the windows, a picture in his mind despite the impenetrable darkness outside.

“Things are better," Nero retorted. "Some people are back in the city. More places stayed in good shape than we thought.” _Despite you_ , he could have added. 

“Even still.”

A loud yawn escaped Nico as she yanked the van into park and leapt out of the driver’s seat. “Well, don't expect me to drive anymore tonight. I’m off the clock,” she announced. 

“Can’t you just open a portal back to the shop?” Nero glanced at the long _saya_ still firm in his father's grip. 

Vergil met his gaze, challenging him to even think about touching the sword. A few violent instincts certainly wanted to, but that was a fight for a decent hour. “The Yamato can only take one where you know; I haven’t dared set foot in Dante’s establishment.”

Dante’s head flipped on his brother and caught him with a wide-eyed stare. The twins shared a long look before either of them regarded Nero again. 

But with just another blink, Dante slung an arm around his brother and winked. “You’re gonna love it. Besides, the place is as much mine as it is Nero’s—he's part of the company!” He fell into a fond laugh. “It’s a real family business now, huh?”

Nero and Vergil balked. 

“Right,” Nero sighed. 

“Y'know I didn’t send you that sign just because I liked you, kid. I know real demon hunters when I see 'em. Why, Lady and Trish wouldn’t even be in the biz if not for me!”

Vergil scoffed. “And yet they’ve both demonstrated better business skills than you ever have.”

Nero chuckled and then bit his lip. No, his dad did not just make a joke. Said man was also totally not staring at him intently in the wake of it either, nope. 

“Yeah, laugh it up," Dante pointed a stern finger at his nephew, "but if you’re gonna represent my name, I need to make sure you’re keeping up to step, kid.”

Nero squinted, though the fierce glare in his eyes shined through bright and clear. “What the hell are you getting at?”

“You say you have things handled, well, let’s see, kid! Show me how you represent Devil May Cry!”

“What you suddenly don’t trust me, old man!? Did the last five years mean nothing? Have you forgotten the fucking Savior already?”

Dante waved him off and leaned back on the chaise. “Those were...situations. This is a job. I expect a certain amount of _professionalism_ from my employees, y'know.”

Now Vergil was barking with clipped laughter. “Don’t use words you don’t understand, Dante. I can get you a dictionary if you would like to learn.”

Dante's face fell into an unamused slate and both brothers settled into their usual mirrored glares. 

“Hey, speaking of books,” Nero leapt from the front seat, slipping his hand into a slot in the center console, “this one’s got your name on it.”

Vergil rose slowly and regarded the precious leather and gold binding before allowing his hands to receive it, gently, reverently, like a newborn child. The cover caught a ray of light in its gold embossing that lit up the V in the center with a quick glint. He blinked at it and opened the book to a random page, eyebrows crinkling at how unfamiliar the layout suddenly seemed. 

There were the illustrations and poems as they had been, in elegant, uniform script as they were straight from Blake’s hand, but now a new hand joined them. Baby blue ink stood on the page, next to _The Tyger_ , circling certain words and lines until the ending passage was littered with large, quick question marks. Further investigation found such marks on almost every page; the flawless line work and spotless pages now ridden with nonsense annotations and the occasional defacing of some choice illustrations. 

“You okay?”

The voice is Nero’s. His son’s. The youth he’d entrusted one of his most prized possessions to. Who’s _defaced_ it. 

He hadn’t realized how tight his grip on the cover has become, but now felt the old leather digging into his gloves, a fine sheen of sweat beginning between his fingers. 

“What did you do to it?”

“What? The book?” The horror dawns on Nero’s naive features as it rises up to meet the fury of his father’s. And then it morphs into anger. “I was just taking notes, like they teach you in school. Nico’s the one who started doodling—I tried to stop her, I swear—“

“Half these works aren’t even legible anymore!” Vergil tossed the tome back at his son.

“They’re fine, I didn’t write that much,” Nero caught it and pointed halfheartedly at a random page.

But his father refused to look any further. “This is nonsense!”

“Hey, not everyone has a knack for this riddle bullshit, okay!? How the hell is any of it supposed to make sense?”

Vergil let out an exasperated huff, his rage falling into a low simmer. “...I should have known this wouldn’t be your caliber," he sighed.

“Oh, you did NOT—!”

"Alright everyone cool on down," Nico began.

"No, Nico let him finish! You calling me stupid, old man? Pops? You that disappointed already?! Sorry I don’t have a stick up my ass as big as yours!

"Cool your groove, dude!” Nico grabbed Nero by the hoodie and yanked him back until he fell flat on his butt in the passenger seat beside her. She actually scowled at him, and for a moment Nero wanted to lash out at her, too. What kind of partner was she if she was taking his scum father’s side? Hadn’t they worked together long enough? Couldn’t she feel _exactly_ like he felt towards his deadbeat of a dad?

But as soon as that scowl appeared it was replaced by placated huff. “Y’all can yell all you want in the mornin'. _Some of us_ want some shuteye.”

Nero could only squint at her, disbelief and betrayal still fresh in his eyes and flushed in his fists.

Nico just gave his shoulder another firm pat and walked out. 

“C'mon kid. Let’s go find a pillow for you to fight,” Dante tried to do the same, but Nero shook his shoulder free and stomped past his uncle, following the mechanic out into the hostel. 

"What?" he shrugged at Vergil. But his brother only rolled his eyes. 

* * *

**04 December 10:32 AM | Red Grave City**

Red Grave, or simply the Grave, as locals were now calling it, is still in pieces. Clean up had little time to progress since the summer and the snow beginning to fall had all but stopped it. 

Nero tries not to think about the daily updates—death tallies were still being finalized, and experts predicted that bodies could still be unearthed for years to come. The unique circumstances of the pollenized husks were proving to be a larger issue in identifying the dead and for this reason, many were still listed as ‘missing.’

He’d stopped watching the news ages ago. Even Kyrie had become an expert at turning the TV or radio off whenever a channel even breached the subject. It just made him angry. He couldn’t stop it. All those demons and death, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. Couldn’t even react quick enough to the bastard who tore off his arm. And now that same bastard was sitting next to him sipping tea like the goddamn queen. 

Nero had only realized he was glaring when Nico shuffled past their little dinette set and gave him a sour look. He just shrugged and kept right on shooting daggers at his father in the corner of his eye. The man had absolutely noticed, and every now and then Nero’s gaze darted over at the exact moment those matching ice blue eyes caught his, so father and son were forced to share an agonizing second of shock before both looked away. Neither said anything or did anything; neither had any notion of any at all. 

So Vergil kept his attention trained on his tea, and Nero picked up Nico’s latest Punchline model and set about memorizing every screw and seam; anything to avoid the foreign abyss that was his father’s gaze. 

It had all worked satisfactory for most of the morning, until it was ruined. 

In the form of Dante’s yawning steps emerging from the back, arms outstretched and hair more disheveled than usual. He murmured a bleary “hey” as a good morning to his brother and nephew. They mumbled their respective responses as Dante kept right on rumbling towards the fridge, the clattering of the shelves drowning out their pleasantries. 

“Hey, ya got any sausage, kid?”

“This isn’t a five-star restaurant, Dante. We have what we have.”

“Well, you don’t have much of anything in here,” he slammed the fridge door shut and emerged only with a can of soda that he took a hearty swig of. He moved on to ruffling through the neighboring cabinets, the falling of a few odds and ends drew Nero right out of his seat and Vergil to attention, their brows matching wrinkles of disgust. 

“Don’t go destroying the whole place while you’re at it, will you? Me and Nico put a lotta work into this thing!”

The mechanic’s curly mop popped up from the driver’s seat, sipping coffee with a menacing look on the rest of her face. She pointed accusingly at Dante while she took a swig and the man leapt back from the cabinets in surrender, a few more odds ‘n ends clanging about in his wake. 

Nero marched his uncle away from the scene of the crime and investigated the food situation for himself. Of course the man who had escaped hell due to its lack of ice cream and pizza wouldn’t know a decent meal if it slapped him the face. Nero himself didn’t have nearly the penchant for junk food simply because he had always eaten well enough. Kyrie constantly worried over their food stock and took it upon herself to make sure they always had a decent supply of non-perishables. It had been her own small personal touch on the van, a piece of home that Nero and Nico always had with them, wherever the demons took them. 

Yet, as Nero’s eyes narrowed and he leaned into the typically packed cabinets, all of Kyrie’s usual offerings were cleaned out. All that remained were a few stray pots and pans for the dinky electric stove at his left, and Tupperware for what usual leftovers they had. The panic set in fast as he veered toward the fridge, his fear only finding exactly what it was looking for: nothing. Bottles of juice with less than a glasses worth left; rotting takeout; several empty boxes of pizza; condiments now with no purpose... all of it, gone!

“We had a week’s worth of food in here and you went through it in a day?!” Nero's jaw gaped open at his uncle.

“Well...food’s pretty sparse in the underworld, kiddo," Dante scratched his head sheepishly. "We gotta build up that metabolism again, right Verge?”

Vergil scoffed. “Speak only for yourself, brother. I don’t find the need to be nearly as ravenous as you.”

“C'mon! Don’t tell me you didn’t inhale that roast!”

Another _hmph_. "It was offered to me and it was exquisite." 

_Of course_ , Nero thought, it was one of Kyrie’s best dishes. She always put entire days worth of prep into them, when they had a particularly good week and could afford to treat the household. The sight of her dramatically bringing it out of the oven while the kitchen filled with curious faces—young and old—which crescendoed into clapping. It was a sight Nero never got tired of. And he hoped he wouldn’t. 

"It’s 'cause we had a week's worth of food for two people!" he scowled at the empty shelves. "You two just had to show your ugly mugs on a Monday of all days..."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Dante frowned.

"We don’t go back to restock until Friday, at least! There’s no way we can afford to go all the way there and back at this point! And don’t you dare suggest pizza again or I’ll ring your neck!"

"I mean, I live off takeout just fine. You just gotta find the good joints."

"Yeah, well your broke ass can pay for it then!"

"Oh would you look at that? Left my wallet at home, it seems! Verge, you wouldn’t happen to have any cash on you, would you?”

The man didn't lift his eyes from his book. "I haven’t had a need for such in a quarter century, Dante." 

"Jeez, you don’t have to be so literal about it." 

“I don’t jest over such things." he kept his eyes trained on the book in his lap, like had been for the past day. Nero wasn't sure if he'd slept that first night—Dante had loudly attested that he could have spent another month passed out with how much the underworld had worn him out—but Vergil had said no such thing. Maybe that came with being the current ruling king of hell, but the so-called prince wasn't about to give his father props for it. 

Since the fight over the book they'd barely spoken; Vergil only asked to examine the mysterious staff and Nero had initially denied him. It once again took the combined efforts of Dante and Nico to convince him that they all needed to figure out what the hell this thing actually was, and what it could do besides open a portal to hell without the Yamato. Amongst them, Vergil was the man for the job. Nero only relented upon the stipulation that he stay within sight of one of them while examining it, lest he take off with yet another unfathomably powerful artifact.

And so his father had planted himself at the desk next to Nico's workbench—a space formerly reserved for her makeup mirror—and taken all the demonic reading materials she had on hand for his research. If his search had been fruitful yet, he hadn't said so.

Dante on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He'd been bugging Nero _all day_. Updates on clients, the city, Kyrie and the kids. It had been fine, at first. But then clients had come calling and the legendary devil hunter started tailing him like an overbearing mother. Nero had assumed that ordering his uncle to stay back and only interfere if he absolutely had to would have been enough—the man was certainly lazy enough to _love_ being told to do nothing—but he could not have foreseen how just being _watched_ would drive him crazy. Nico, at least, was usually excited to see him work and sometimes offered notes on his fighting style that came in handy. Dante was eerily quiet, and if Nero didn't already know how the man trickster-ed about, he would've been freaked out by how fast he kept reappearing around him.

It had been a long time since Nero even had to worry about trained eyes on him, watching, judging, grading. It had pissed him off as a teen and it certainly wasn't doing him any favors now.

Seeing Dante's stupid smirk every time he turned around was apparently a curse in their family, if Vergil's reactions were anything to go by. Had he done that his entire life, he wondered? Was it a habit of teasing his twin, or was it just a trait that was all Dante?

Again his thoughts don't allow him any consideration for reality as a cacophony of voices shake away any trace of peace he could hope for.

Nico is shooing then all out of the van to take inventory, as she says, and it takes only minutes for the trio of Spardas to die from boredom. When she finally bursts forth, chewing a pen and waving a notepad, they all leap to attention. 

“Alright, listen up you bums,” she commands, “we need a lotta stuff from a few different places, so we’re gonna have to split up.”

“Trish and Lady are the only ones I trust to handle food, so I called and asked them to make a run to the market. I need to stock up on some munition’s and tools, so I’m taking the hardware outlet and I want Dante to come with.”

Dante's brow quirked. "What do you need me for?"

"Hey, if you don't care how I keep those guns of yours up to snuff, that's fine," she waved her arms about flippantly, "but I'll be dammed before I let my granny's guns be neglected, and you're responsible for them, too." 

Dante just waved her off.

"...Plus I need to pick that brain of yours some more."

"Now that's where you've gone too far, Nicoletta," Vergil actually pipes up, "you're assuming he _has_ a brain."

Nico has to actually hold her gut to balance the guffaws that escape her rib cage. Nero tries desperately to hide any traces of a smile under his hood, knocking on the busted-up shell of the van to get his laughter out. 

"V, you're killin' it! Keep it up!"

A thin, pleased smile plastered on his smug face as he nodded at the mechanic. Dante huffed and folded his arms.

The air of mockery faded slowly, outrageous laughter turning into stifled chuckling. It did so much so that Nero let his guard down, but his keen demonic senses still brought Nico's sly grin into focus, her mischievous hazel eyes darting between him and— _oh, no_.

He _hated_ that he knew her so well. 

“Nero, you take your old man down to the scrap heap a few blocks down. I put in some orders there that need pickin' up, plus whatever else you can find.”

“That’s like, two miles away. Can’t you drive us?” he whined.

“Outta gas. That’s another thing you need to grab on the way back.”

“Come on!”

“We need a lotta stuff and little time to get it, so shush!”

“I know what you’re doing, Nico—!”

“Yeah, I’m trying to take charge so all you little demons will actually be useful! Stop whining and get!” Nico threw her notepad at him and stormed back into the van, Dante following behind her. 

Leaving Nero with his father, alone.

At first, Vergil just waited. Steely eyes bore into his son like he was measuring an enemy, but really he just had no idea where to go. But neither of them were about to _say_ that. 

_God_. Nero sighed internally. For a guy who built walls like they were going out of style, he sure didn’t give a shit about anyone else’s. 

He glanced down. Yamato was tucked safely in at his father's side, his grip tight and assuredly deadly. 

Nero was suddenly keenly aware of the few souls that populated this area. Thing were bad enough when he had the Red Queen safely put away on his back; it was still a giant fucking sword. Fortuna was one thing—city folk like Red Grave's would never quite acclimate, even with their home in pieces. Lady even rarely carried Kalina Ann out in public here—and he and Nico had certainly gotten a show the first time they'd witnessed her reveal exactly how much of an armory she kept hidden on her at all times. Just looking at someone like her, the average citizen could never guess she was a devil hunter.

Just looking and he and his father—it would be a wonder if people didn't think they were assassins.

Nero sighed pointedly. “Probably shouldn’t walk down the street with a katana, don’t you think?”

Vergil was unperturbed. “I’ve never had an issue before.”

“Maybe in a pre-Qliphoth world, but these people are hardened now. They saw demons destroy their city and they survived them, but they won’t go as easy the second time around.”

Vergil just hummed. It had been easier when humans just accepted their fates. 

He says nothing more but pointedly holds Yamato up into the sunlight to be engulfed in a shower of sparks. As light rains down the length the katana is transformed into the shape of a cane— _V’s cane_ —and Nero’s eyes widen at the sight. When the magic fades Vergil is still holding it up, as if waiting for his son to relent. 

Nero could only blink sense back into his eyes. “Yeah, it’s—fine.”

The man finally tucks the cane in at his side and motions for Nero to lead the way. And away they go. 

What had once been an orderly if already-naturally-worn-down industrial district existed in chunks now: a few strong-standing buildings jarred by gaps that spanned a block or two, and then resumed on the next block as if it were nothing but a sinkhole. The former workers of this place certainly treated it as such, and some scattered souls used newly-built bridges or fortified detours to get where they needed to go. Red Grave's reconstruction had only begun, and their city would need them to be efficient if it was ever going to be whole again.

But Nero had no such memories of Red Grave as anything other than an "unholy metropolis" that the Order had warned the parish of. His only thoughts of the city past included being whisked overhead by helicopter alongside a hipster-looking guy with talking demons as pets.

He remembers thinking V extraneously pompous to choose a cane as a weapon. It was short, thin, and only used for finishing blows. Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare did all the real demon slaying while the cane simply shone as a blinding accent to their dark work. Later, when the mysterious one began to wither, Nero actually felt bad for ever assuming the instrument held no other purpose. 

Vergil wields it entirely differently. It looks enormously small in his large hands, exaggerated by the leather gloves that always covered them. Thus, the pommel is completely out of sight, leaving only the gleam of silver to give any hint of its former nature. Then Nero realizes, as the wind dies and their steps quiet, that his father doesn’t use it as a cane at all. The neck is firm in his grip just where Yamato’s usually is; and like the prized katana, the cane never hits the ground. 

In the absence of V’s constant clacking, he keeps waiting to hear the patterned clicks of the cane doing its job, holding its weight, serving a purpose. The air feels empty without it. 

Nero feels a void where there is and isn’t. It’s unsettling. He hates it. 

_Goddamn it._

“Something the matter?” A murmur came from his left. Of course he said it out loud, because he can’t even keep his own freaking thoughts from his father, already. 

“Nothing,” Nero snipes. He hears the softest “hmph” from the man but neither press further. Even V wouldn’t have have dared. Nero's thankful to god for leaving that quality to shine in his newly-reunited father. Everything else was new or Urizen, and all were taking getting used to. 

One thing that hadn’t changed was the flawless shine of the bright metal. It caught the afternoon sun like a thief; greedy and with very little intention. At least V, in his actual use of the cane’s intention, had never blinded him with it. Vergil’s superficial grip of the thing held it at the perfect angle to sear his son's eyes with every other step. 

Nero tugged the hood of his jacket down lower and kept his gaze trained downward, but the persistent glare still flared into his line of sight, quiet and stinging and quick as could be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought this was just going to be a dadgil & son angst fic? you think all that uncle & nephew angst got totally sorted at the end of 5?? in this family we all have specific angst with each other!! (Vergil is ABSOLUTELY an asshole book purist. He would’ve written a thinkpiece about Marie Kondo’s method and then gotten blasted on twitter about it tbh. Tho I do think if he felt the need to take notes he would be into bookmarks and post-it color-coordinating by character and shit. He is a super-organized English major about it.) And hey if we can mirror the game and have Vergil inadvertently motivate the hell out of Nero then let’s go fam! I was wondering what a good dead weight equivalent would be and I found it by accident lol
> 
> Blake fact: he was commissioned to illustrate a work called "The Grave" by Robert Blair, which is way too fitting and neat to ignore. I also feel like the fact that Fortuna hasn’t 100% rebounded from the Savior attack within 5 years confirms that DMC’s human disaster relief is as slow and flawed as ours, so poor Red Grave is prolly lookin at 5-10 years before they’re mostly recovered :/
> 
> also, in light of visions of v and his inability to tell jokes, I honestly feel like Vergil doesn't consider his burns on Dante to be joke-jokes, just facts lmao. he did the same in dmc3, too!


	4. interlude i - Trish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trish and Lady go on their grocery run. Morrison makes some calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the lateness, my mental health really wasn't up to snuff this week, but I managed to surprise myself with how much I like this chapter, so all's well that ends well? :|

**04 December 2:22 PM | Red Grave Outer Boroughs**

Trish isn't the biggest fan of errands, if she's honest. Her first few attempts in the human world didn't go too well, and even after she got the hang of the transactions, it still dogged her. The stares never stopped. Even in her bulky leather jackets and dark sunglasses, some leering human eyes would try to pin her to the wall. She of course, had no trouble turning the blade right back on them, literally and figuratively. But she had quickly learned that stabbing humans in public was frowned upon--though Lady had explained it was much more than 'frowned upon' in most circumstances--she wasn't convinced. There was enough random stabbings on the news to say otherwise. Were humans and demons much different if they couldn't resist the urge to hurt each other? It made a sadistic kind of sense to her.

She doesn't care how she looks, and especially not how others--human or demon--think she does. Mundus had created her to be Eva but she became Trish and Trish she will be as long as she carries on her way, and only her way. They can stare, they can judge, but they won't get a word in if they don't want a shock.

So how on earth did a young human woman convince her to pick up some veggies from the supermarket, like a stay-at-home mother?

She's not keen to tell most souls. Emotionally-stunted men like Dante were no good company, and business men like Morrison didn't care to know. But so far, all she's needed to confess has stayed between herself, Lady, and Nico. And this female fraternity is one that she can live with. 

They'd gotten along famously while the Sparda men were busy running around their issues in circles and stabbing the living daylights out of each other instead of _talking_ , like an actual family. While it had been initially disappointing to be shut out of the action, in truth, it had been a welcome reprieve from the drama Dante typically dragged them into. They hadn't had to worry about running away to evacuate people like in Fortuna--the humans had been long gone from Red Grave by the time they escaped their demonic prisons. The ladies just stayed around in case things got Urizen-level bad again, but they really didn't have to.

And there was Nico with her wild fascination with Lady's arsenal and Trish's lightning, though it helped that she eventually opened up her personal liquor stash that she kept from Nero. Things had gotten a little crazy, but mostly fun. Trish almost felt bad for the boys, in retrospect. They'd spent a long-ass day getting their asses beat and only had a family crisis to show for it. The girls had managed to make the most of it, even when it seemed like the world might end. And why not, right? After a month trapped in the bowels of a couple demonic puppets, they deserved a little time to breathe.

And breathe she does.

Aisles and aisles of needless human wares pass her by aimlessly. How humans could so gullible for this stuff was beyond her demonic instincts. Was it all the ostentatious colors? The unnerving smiles of illustrated animals and people? Trish liked pizza as much as the next person, but some of these meals were just death in a box. So she's relieved when Nico sends her a relatively utilitarian list of essentials: fruits and veggies, grains, seasoning, frozen meats and canned mixes. It firmed her belief that Nico was one of the good ones, though sadly not a hunter, so Trish would help her as much as she could. It was rare that she cared this much, honestly, but that was Dante's fault, too. The least she could do was deal it out on her discretion, just like everything else. 

Lady is helpful, and thankfully not controlling. She never was with Trish. Only towards Dante and his ever-increasing pile of debt did she go off. Lady tends to go off-list because she knows what humans need with a very refined taste, if Trish does say for herself. They occasionally bicker over things to pick or not pick--junk food, because they both have a weakness for it but differ on flavor. They draw when something is cheap because who could knock on a good deal?

Nico's calls are fewer and farther between these days she's been busy with Nero and they with Devil May Cry. They don't get to hang out as much as they would like. So when she presents an opportunity to meet up--they leap at it, and even throw the groceries in on them. Neither of them have the heart to bill good, young Nero, despite his unfortunate relation to Dante. They'd helped clean up the pieces of his hometown, after all, and they saw firsthand how angelic Kyrie was even in the brief moments they had with her. These kids are young and deserve the few chances some veteran devil hunters like themselves can throw. And they'll happily throw them, when they can.

Their arms laden with bags, it takes some creative stuffing to fit them in the compartments on their motorcycles, but they manage, like always. 

Lady is busy fiddling with the strap on her helmet when the phone rings, and Trish sighs all semblance of domestic bliss out of her lungs before she answers.

"Devil May Cry?"

"Trish, I've got a job," Morrison's smokey baritone greeted her less than warmly.

"Most people say _good afternoon_ first," she tsked.

"It'll be good when I get the finder's fee for this one," he retorted with a chuckle.

"Well, we're headed to Red Grave right now, actually," she looked at Lady, who cocked her chin curiously. Trish put two fingers to her lips and blew out a phantom drag.

"Ah, this one wants you back here in the slums."

"Its gonna have to wait; we're running an errand for the young blood right now."

"You don't have to babysit them, y'know. Haven't they flown the nest yet?"

Trish let out a dry laugh.

"If the client's willing to pay a rush fee, we'd be happy to scurry on back!" Lady shouted with fiendish cheer.

"I'll ask," Morrison assured with a deep huff. "Don't smother those kids too much, now,"

"Just make sure you keep that job hooked," Trish warned. "Don't you dare shop it to any of those second-rate hunters."

"You've got my word, but the clock's ticking," his voice cut off with a coughing fit.

"Only on you," she ended the call. 

Lady barked out another laugh, her smile as bright and wide as the midday sun. Trish found herself staring a few seconds too long; she nearly fell off her bike reaching out to catch her own helmet as her partner tossed it deliberately out of her reach. She sneered at Lady but couldn't stop her own smirk from blooming across her face. 

"Race you!" Lady shouted over the roar of the engine, a series of teasing revs echoing in tune with her waggling eyebrows. 

Trish didn't bother with a response, the wind would have stolen it if their ear-splitting engines didn't first. But of course Lady didn't ever bother to play fair or nice--she sped off with a mocking laughter that Trish would have taken offense to, once. But now she welcomed such sounds. They were humanizing, in the way only laughs and cries and tears could be. Its the best reminder of her own humanity that she still covets, and Lady is her greatest source of all. 

* * *

**04 December 3:15 PM | Red Grave City**

The ladies don't spend much time in Red Grave, But when they do, oh do they have trouble.

Its too busy for Trish, who reveled in the grime and eerie quiet of slum avenue when she first arrived with Dante. It was like the underworld, in its own human way. Populated only by the strongest and stupidest, the slickest and the smartest. But the novelty wore off fast, as did Dante.

Nero has taken well to the uptick in jobs there, so they stay away unless specifically asked over. Handling the excess of jobs left in Dante's absence is enough, and there's the petty pride in literally doing his job better than he ever did. 

So of course, just on a mundane favor to Nico, do demons find them.

If the continued disrepair of the city hadn't forced them to slow their motorcycles down, they might have flown past the old shopping district like it was nothing. But in between swerves and jumps over debris, does Trish spot them. Her finely tuned reflexes honed in on the scrape of a cleaver on brick, and the low mutters of a baphomet echoing off an alleyway.1

They only need share a single look as they kill their engines and sulk after the source of the noise, boots quiet as can be. 

Lady kneels at the left of the alley, her hands quickly taking stock of her available arms as Trish leans into the wall of the right, the balls of her feet ready to pounce at the drop of a limb. The absence of the Sparda weighs heavy on her in these quiet moments, when she does her plotting. Round trip had been one of her favorite openers; a great distraction to free her hands to use however her lightning felt on the day. But she had fought without any weapons once, and she'll fight however way she can if it means kicking demon ass right back to the underworld.

Another glance of three blue eyes and one red. They're ready.

Trish sprints off, lighting flowing off her limbs in bounds, both the electricity and her speed shocking the demons still in their feet. When she flies past them and stops, demanding their full attention, Lady fires a clip of twin Uzis into the crowd and turns their backs into Swiss cheese. 

But only a few fall, and the growls from other corners make themselves known. Trish vaults between the thin walls of the brick alley until she stands on top of the roof of one of the buildings, peering down from the bird's eye view. Lady let loose another spray of bullets on the stragglers until she was sure the alley was clear. Only one grapple with Kalina Ann was all she needed to fly up to Trish's side.

More sounds came rumbling out, shrieking and groaning with effort as they barreled towards the hunters. But Trish couldn't deny the itchy feeling at her senses--those that knew the difference between bigger and smaller demons. There were bigger ones around, but they weren't showing themselves yet, and this was wave three. 

Whoever or whatever was here was throwing expendables at them, but why?

When the view is clear enough, she sees the flash before she hears the firing sound. 

"What kind of gun is that?" Lady asked, frustration creeping into her voice. She was supposed to have known and seen everything demon-gun-related by now--what could have gotten by her in all her years?

"Not just any," Trish replied, her lightning tingling with familiarity. She never admitted to being scared of those in Mundus' army--she was a part of it for god's sake--but there were some that involuntarily activated her fight or flight response. Before she knew what that meant to humans, she'd only thought of it as weakness, as a sign that Mundus had been too efficient in designing her after a human. But then she saw them for herself:

Nelo Angelo (due to their familial relation, she assumed). Nightmare (because it was made to destroy anything. Anything). And a third.

"Nightmare-beta," she pointed her chin at the flash of violet light that ricocheted off the alley's walls. The lasers bounced and bounced until they finally expended themselves of power. 

"Wait," Lady gasped, pushing her bangs away as she fought with her own memory, "the charge shot that Dante brought back with you?"

"The same," she confirmed. He hadn't used it much, especially after acquiring the Sparda, but it had been a very unique weapon and she was just glad it stayed out of the hands of a more cruel or crafty demon. Not many knew it was in fact Mundus' first attempt at creating Nightmare--a novel concept for a gun but a poor design for an unstoppable demon monstrosity. The fact that it had an outrageously long charge time and required an endless source of power was far too much trouble even for a king of the underworld. It had been all but thrown away on Mallet, waiting for a capable hand like Dante's to wield it.

And then he sold it for the next month's rent. Trish never actually saw him use it on a job. Back then she couldn't blame him, because she saw humans as easily scared, naive creatures who knew nothing of demonkind. While that turned out to be true in varying degrees, Dante also turned out to be a very _lazy_ pair of capable hands who'd sooner sell any guns that weren't Ebony and Ivory than actually work enough jobs to pay his debt.

But they'd never encountered his former devil arms after sale before--they usually went to collectors or other wannabe devil hunters. 

Trish didn't have to wonder why it was Nightmare-beta. It was powerful; she'd seen so firsthand. But she was sure no human could wield it, correctly. A demon, though? With enough power and motivation? Absolutely.

But Lady, Lady could. She didn't know; she just felt so.

"You need to get it away from them," Trish told her. 

Lady met her eyes and nodded. Her trust was resolute, and Trish would throw herself back into hell if she ever steered her closest companion wrong. 

Trish reached back into her holsters for Luce and Ombra, a plan already forming in her mind: if they could use sound just like they had used it to find the demons in the first place, maybe they pull a fast one over them--at least, the smaller ones. She had a rough idea where the head honcho had to be hiding with the gun, but she wasn't about to send Lady in there blind.

She pointed her chin across the rooftop and Lady nodded and took off. Then Trish allowed herself a deep breath and focused as much of her power as she could contain. This could backfire, if a lot more demons were waiting in the wings for them, but it would at least be a helluva show.

She lets go.

A blinding burst of lightning rained down from the heavens, showering the alley with sparks that consumed every combustible thing in range. It would have been a beautiful sight just on its own, but Trish couldn't leave it at that. Giving herself the space of only one more breath, she unleashed a shower of bullets on the shell-shocked demons, juggling the few that didn't immediately die in the lightning storm. 

The only sounds left were the mumbling chants of the baphomet, as it appeared in a flash of smoke amongst it's fallen brethren. In its hands was the gun, searching for its target.

_Jackpot_.

"Now!" Trish shouted at Lady.

The walking arsenal wasted no time grappling off the rooftop and kicking off the baphomet's face back into the wall. The shock knocked Nightmare-beta right out of its hands and into the air, through which Lady soared like an Olympic gymnast. With inhuman speed she pushed right back off the brick and into a diving slide past the baphomet's feet, snatching up the gun before the demon knew what hit them.

Trish fired a single bullet through the head of the demon, it's dying cries echoing off the alley walls like Nightmare-beta before it.

"And she sticks the landing," she golf-clapped. 

Lady bowed and held Nightmare-beta up victoriously.

"So is this a gold medal prize, then?" her keen eyes scanned the barrel.

"It could be, in the right hands."

"So anyone but Dante's--got it," Lady snickered.

"You don't think the kid can handle it?" Trish personally had no doubt, since the kid had waltzed back to the van and casually showed off a new arm and a devil trigger. But she knew how attached he was to Blue Rose, and she couldn't imagine being separated from Luce and Ombra again. The Sparda had been enough.

"Probably," Lady shrugged noncommittally. "He's at least got to ask nicely."

They're both deciding just where the hell to store the gun when Morrison is calling again. Trish answers it with a sigh, though she doesn't expect to be met with one as well.

"Client's mad, ladies. Did you do something?"

No, she instinctively says. Their business is their business. They'd gone through enough trial and error to know how to protect themselves against pushy clients. That way, they were never forced to take the worst jobs just to pay rent, like Dante.

"C'mon Trish," Morrison goads with a tone that knows. "A couple'a troublemakers like you don't stay quiet for long."

"What we do with our time is our business, which is sure as hell none of yours, Morrison."

"And that's fine, you know I don't care about your personal afflictions. But for whatever reason, the client says the job's off and its _your_ fault, somehow."

She locks eyes with Lady, who scoots closer to listen in on the call, curiosity filling her mismatched eyes. 

"I told you; we're just helping out Nico and Nero. We haven't even met up with them yet."

"Well, maybe ask them a few things--the client wasn't exactly free with the details. You've got plenty of time now, I guess."

Trish let out a long sigh. "Yeah, thanks anyway."

The line clicked off. Lady's boots tapped anxiously. Trish's hair still buzzed with leftover static. 

"Well?" Lady asked.

"Well, " Trish echoed, "we pissed off more than a few demons today."

It was just one job. They'd been rejected by clients for far pettier reasons before. Usually misogynistic ones, but those were always good to let out some excess frustration, especially if the guy was demonic and could take more than a few hits.

But this pulled at her, just like the power of Nightmare-beta, of the baphomets, of the lesser demons. Yet there was nothing but death and quiet here in Red Grave, and she hated that this city was still mostly a mystery to her. A half-dead one at that. 

"Call them," Lady told her, and she didn't need to elaborate. 

The ride to the industrial district is pretty short. It would've been minutes when the city was in one piece but it was now closer to an hour, thanks to all the pieces. Nico told them that the van was left locked and parked in a lot empty of the few returned workers that populated the area, so as to stay away from prying human eyes. The two shared an odd look when the mechanic explained that she nor Nero would be back at the van for awhile, and they could just leave the groceries there and split. 

Lady very cautiously brought up the prospect of allowing Nico to inspect Nightmare-beta. If anyone other than Trish would know about demonically-powered things, it was Nico.

No, she thought immediately. But Lady is still skeptical, so she explains as best as her instincts allow.

"Its too dangerous to just leave there," in a city still ravaged by demons of all shapes and sizes, even if it was considered mostly safe for humans now. Nico is the most human of all of them, and even with the van and Nero she still managed to get herself into trouble. Not that Trish particularly cared, but it worried the hell out of Nero, even if he showed more annoyance than so. And then there was the whole trouble with the client, which weighed more deeply on her mind than she liked.

"I can figure it out," Lady asserted. And Trish wholeheartedly believed her. It was harder not to, after all these years.

"You will," she agreed soundly, "and she can have a look at it when she's not busy."

They nodded in agreement and went about their work. The spare key in the power compartment of the neon sign was easy enough to juggle free, and the van's door opened and shut to them easily. It was a mess, and Trish had to suppress every damned maternal instinct in her clone brain to keep from picking up. She'd just scold them for it later, those kids. They were great, but god were they different from Dante and every other devil hunter she knew. It was a fresh change of pace; fresh as the cool December air of the city, slowly coming back to life from darker days. 

She just hoped there weren't any more ahead of them, as the door shut behind them, empty and cold. The van wasn't supposed to look like this. Devil May Cry's unlit neon sign wasn't supposed to look like this. But they're re-strapping their helmets and turning their engines before Trish lets herself think about it. Nero and Nico will be back, because they're young and fresh and good. Hell, even Dante and Vergil still could, if death couldn't stop either of them in the past.

Its hope that she holds onto, that blasted, human thing. But she refuses to let it go, in the wind and destruction and evil that surround them.

Not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here are the ladies, finally! If you wanna interpret them romantically you have my blessing bc their scenes in 5 are so damn cute I can't let myself write them without any silliness for long. I just didn't tag the ship bc I don't wanna accidentally bait people who want the dedicated Trish/Lady fic that they deserve :/ 
> 
> I'm a little sorry to say that there'll definitely be NO update next week, (1/10/20) only because I'm going on a nice winter vacation! and I don't want to worry about posting from hotel wifi or spending too much time on my laptop when I should be out seeing as many sights as I can lol. So hopefully I'll be back with the boys by the 17th!


	5. barely human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slow day comes to an agonizing close, but the group must first deal with too many cooks in the (van) kitchen. Nero just wants some potatoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [stefon voice] this update has EVERYTHING. domestic fluff! awkward family dinner! all-nighters! vergil pov!

> _But the wrenching of Urizen heal'd not  
> _ _Cold, featureless, flesh or clay,  
> _ _Rifted with direful changes  
> _ _He lay in a dreamless night_
> 
> _\- The Book of Urizen,_ William Blake

**04 December 6:38 PM | Red Grave City**

Logically, Nero knew that the days were in fact shorter this time of year, but mentally, they felt about three times longer. Every minute walking side-by-side with his stilted father had stretched the few blocks-walk they had into a miles-long one, and things hadn't improved from there. The only relief the poor staff of the scrapyard offered was the chance to talk to normal, socially-behaved people—a fact Nero realized he hadn't appreciated nearly enough over these past months.

All Nero could do was grin and bear it while his father's many faces began to ingrain themselves in his patience. Who knew any one person could have so many ways for communicating displeasure and impatience? Every quirk of a brow or downturn of a lip might as well have been another slice Yamato took through Nero's nerves with the pure number of times Vergil's face changed. And those were just the ones Nero could pick up on while he was trying to remember exactly everything that Nico wanted. If this was how the man acted on a meaningless errand, what the hell would he do when they had bigger fish to fry? Was it their family's demon blood that enabled him to be so much more exasperating than any human, or was that just a side effect of the Qliphoth fruit? 

Nero just kept piling up his wares, ignoring his father as much as he could without literally asking him to do something. That was how he had communicated with V, anyway. For as fragile and mysterious as the human had been, he at least seemed to understand the balance of silence and cooperation well. Still, he wondered where that trait went when V got stuffed back into Vergil.

The walk back was even more awkward, if only because Nero refused to even look at the man even when little things kept falling off his pile of scrap. He just slowed enough to hear Vergil's steps stop and clang with the fallen items thrown on his pile, then resume. Nero never said thanks; he didn't deserve it. Not for literal trash, at least. 

Then there was the excruciating wait for Nico and Dante, who seemed to have had just the opposite experience on their outing. If it was not Dante's demonic aura that roused either from their stewing, it was the loud echo of his laughter bouncing off the empty city streets, flanked by the blinding white of Nico's devilish smile.

“Who’s hungry?" he asked with a very Dante-specific glee. 

“You would be fine without it,” Vergil tsked in a very older brother tone of voice. Nero recognized it from Credo, but he refused to cross those nostalgic wires with the same excruciating visage of his father.

Dante blew a raspberry and paid him no attention. "Maybe _you_ don't, brother, but I got a grown-ass appetite that needs attention."

"No, you don't."

"Speak for yourself, then!"

Nero starts massaging his temples. He expects this much immaturity from Dante, at least. But Vergil? Fearsome king of hell? Firstborn son of Sparda? Far from a father of the year candidate??

Of course the man has an opinion on everything, even if he doesn't necessarily voice it. When Vergil silently began to put their haul away, Nero actually started thinking that was decent of him. It was so...domestic.

But then the groceries got pulled out and his brow furrowed. 

Perhaps someday they would talk about why Vergil was so particular about which canned foods went where and how Nero and Nico stored their collection of tupperware—but their flared tempers prevent any means of speaking like kin. Before this week, Nero felt it would have been nice to have a son of Sparda who was actually cleanly and organized—the exact opposite of Dante—but he should have known better than to count his chickens before they were skewered by summoned swords. 

Nico pointed at the myriad of post-its on the cabinets, cross-referencing the scribbles of recipes with what ingredients they had on hand. Nero is nodding along lot more than usual; his new sources of frustration have taken a lot of the fight out of him in the past 24 hours. For the love of god, he just wants to sit back and have a nice, hand-cooked meal to ground himself a little more in this new reality where his father and uncle coexist with him. Food could cure _anything_ , as Kyrie liked to say, and he was her most loyal believer.

So when Nico assigns him to potato duty, Nero agrees without complaint. 

Vergil is still hovering, however, and his son has half a mind to grab the fly swatter. But somewhere within his demonic instincts he heard a murmur get lost in the prattling of the van, and suddenly Nico is aghast, her face somewhere between unconstrained glee and shock. 

"You're tellin' me you know how to _cook_?" she gasped.

Vergil's gaze strays away from either of them, and he seems to speak more to the chicken than them. "Our mother was very diligent in teaching us all she knew."

"Really?" Nero freezes, time stopping around him. His father's mother. His _grandmother_. Dante never spoke of her unless he was taunting someone. Trish had confirmed their resemblance from the photo on Dante's desk, then told him it didn't matter. But here was the first thing he'd ever heard of her—someone who had as much input to their family as Sparda's storied history. She knew how to cook and taught her sons as such. What else, does he dare ask? Surely there had to be something, and his mind gets so greedy it barrels forward too fast, shattering at the sight of both twins staring at him silly. Nero's nose flushed so much it itched, and he had to hide behind another scratch. "Dante acts like he's never seen a stove in his life!" he blurted.

"Nah, none of that witchcraft really stuck with me." his uncle chuckled.

Vergil shoots his brother a lethal look, full of blasphemy and something else that stunk of pettiness. "They were simple recipes, Dante."

The man just shrugs. "Pizza's always easier."

"She even made that for you, not that you _deserved_ it."

Dante's wistful gaze locked on the ground, then. "...Never could find one as good, no matter how many places I tried."

Nero is barely allowing himself to picture it—his uncle and father as little boys throwing toppings on dough, being guided by gentle hands in between glimmers of light lost within decades of darkness, and his own young imagination. Nico, as usual, ruins the moment.

"Hey, are you lumps gonna help out or step out? We're not rich on space in here!"

Dante took one look at the spread around them and nope'd out onto the couch. He pulled his Faust hat out and yanked it over his brow, his chest already rising and falling with sleep. Nero shook his head and took his spot at the counter, gathering handfuls of red potatoes for cutting. He paid his still father no further mind, as he assumed he'd just follow his brother and glower somewhere else. 

But of course Nico has the gall to giggle. "Well, daddy-o? You gonna give your boy a hand?"

Nero paid her a steely glare but kept his knife in the potatoes. For now. "Ha ha," he scoffed at her while she kept prattling like a proud peacock. 

Yet Vergil remained, halfway between Nico and Nero, eyes darting at the both of them with an unreadable scrutiny. Then, he fidgeted with Yamato's ties and pointed his chin at the mechanic.

"What do you plan to make?" he asked.

Nico perked up, all her feathers following after her, and Nero instantly felt smothered. But he could only hide his shock in the potatoes, quartering them as neatly as Kyrie had taught him. His partner's constant words and showboating would fall into the background as she indulged Vergil's short, succinct comments. At least, that was what he hoped. 

_One two three four, slide the potatoes into the pan, sprinkle the salt, shake the pepper, throw the garlic._ It was a simple, harmonic rhythm that Kyrie often used to both calm the orphans down and teach them some good motor skills. That Nero also benefited from it as well was just good teaching. 

"...Then Nero here gives the taters a good sprinklin' in the seasoning, and we throw 'em in the oven for a bit."

"Who taught you this?" Vergil wondered aloud, though his son couldn't tell exactly which one of them he was asking.

"Kyrie," Nico smiled proudly and whacked Nero on the back as she passed.

"Who?" Vergil actually paid his son attention, but it was Nero's turn to play the stubborn one. His shoulders hunched up over the potatoes, finished as they were for the moment, and it took all his combined strength from wrangling orphans to keep from turning, stabbing his father, and walking out. Instead he sighed, but refused to turn as he returned the knife to the sink and began washing.

"My girlfriend," is the only explanation he'll offer. For now.

Despite the obvious curiosity in his voice, Vergil's face showed little reaction. Not that Nero could read him at all, anyway. Just looking at the man made him so angry, he was discovering, that he mostly just wanted to stop feeling like shit from every little look he received.

Nico bounced back without a trace of the awkwardness stemming between father and son with a photo hanging between her fingers. She all-but-stuffed it into Vergil's face and pointed even closer.

"There's our girl!" her finger poked the visage of Kyrie's smiling face excitedly. "She's been the apple of your boy's eye longer than I've known either of 'em."

"Just a few years," Nero specified, stuffing his hands under more water and suds.

Still the man remained unmoved, unimpressed, if Nero had to assume, and at the worst, displeased. But he kept his fists clenched under the running faucet and soap, all of his nerves being channeled into scrubbing. He didn't care what his father thought of his girlfriend, he really shouldn't, he couldn't, and he would scrub his own hands to the bone just to convince himself absolutely.

"That's _not_ what she said," Nico laughed back. "She said it more like you two were tied at the hip since ya'll were this high!" The mechanic held her palm perpendicular with her knees.

Nero shrugged noncommittally. He would not let Nico bait him into this one, nope. He's had more than enough practice resisting her personality, thankfully. "We were just kids."

Nico just huffed coyly and returned to her own food prep.

Slow, heavy footfalls followed her to the other side of the van and Nero let out a heavy sigh. Finally, as he bent over to check the preheated oven and his still-glistening potatoes, could he just sit and simmer. Whether or not his temper would boil over or and burn out was still up in the air.

* * *

Forty minutes of roasting, sauteing, and cooling later, they had a nice-looking, even-better-smelling platter of roasted potatoes before them, a perfect side to Nico's pan-seared chicken. 

Dante's nose poked out from under his hat first, sniffing curiously like a puppy. And sure enough, when he lifted the brim he had a wide smile and matching eyes to go with it. "Damn, that smells like somethin' special!" he whistled.

"It's a lot easier than it looks," Nero told his uncle.

He refused to smile, but allowed himself to bask in the same pride Kyrie spoke of regularly. Altogether, he and Nico had taken about an hour, from bags to counter to stove and out. That had been his biggest concern, when Kyrie began insisting they use the mini-kitchen in the van more. Both mechanic and devil hunter shared a look and assumed they'd never have time. But then Kyrie's brow scrunched up in that way it did when she was disappointed, or scared, or just thinking, and Nero knew she wasn't just being wishful. If they kept being stubborn and lazy, she would find a way to _make_ them cook, and it would probably be the most polite scolding either of them had ever experienced.

Luckily, Nero knew better than to let things get that far. Most days.

Cooking, after getting ingredients in the first place, was usually the fastest part. And with the right recipes and methods under one's belt, any number of combinations were possible for main dishes and sides—all you really had to do was try! Kyrie explained. She didn't have to devote entire days to her famous roasts, but she did because it fed everyone well and felt like an accomplishment in itself. Nero could instantly relate; he got bored of most low-level demons so quickly these days, but going after the big ones? Now _that_ kept him motivated. But they were all learning and they were better for it, he certainly felt so.

At least, until now.

Nico and Dante are groaning at him to hurry up with the platter, its heavenly fumes and steam running thinner by the second. They ran outside, because their folding table was the only thing big enough to hold all of them and the van was done for space now, but Nero could only follow slowly, unless they wanted their dinner off the ground.

Nero steps off the van and wants to grin like Kyrie does when she presents a dish, only to have his face freeze solid.

Vergil's blank, pale, stone-carved face awaits him, seated at the head of their ratty, secondhand table like the goddamn queen. Sure he was _technically_ the demon king still, but did he have to play it up so hard? He even set the table—his stuck-up father set the _fucking_ fold-up table. _Are those napkin cranes?_ Nero gapes internally. Where did he even get them? Last he'd checked, they'd gotten plenty of tear away napkins in the groceries. 

Nico, to her credit, put it upon herself to serve everyone—even the cold man who wouldn't take his icy eyes off of his own son. Nero's glad, mostly because even if the man had asked to be served, he wouldn't have been able to resist spitting in his food. Or forcing him to say "please" and "thank you." He couldn't make up his mind. But Nico's wide grin and snarky laughter are a good enough balm for the moment, and once she sets him up with his own plate, he finds Kyrie's mantra on the power of food to be especially true.

Nonetheless, Vergil picks at his plate, slowly shifting his potatoes and chicken around like a kid attempting to hide their vegetables. Nero knows; he has three of them waiting for him at home. He can't imagine what their mother must have gone through dealing with the two of them as actual children.

"Must you eat with your hands?" Vergil snapped at his brother.

"What?" Dante choked on a piece of chicken but still gleefully stuffed another one in after. "Its just chicken strips and fries."

Nero facepalmed. "Its breaded thighs and roasted potatoes!"

Dante kept right on shoveling it into his gullet, shrugging. "Eh, same thing."

Nico's giggles echoed around the table, but they fell back into silence regardless. Only the sound of her little personal heater chugging away under her chair filled the chilly air with unnatural humming and heat. 

She kicked Nero under the table and his fork almost went flying out of his grasp. "Why don't you tell 'em what else your girl can do?"

He frowned at her. "That's none of their business."

Dante stopped chewing long enough to nudge his nephew in the shoulder. "She still doin' her music?"

"Of course."

"What kind?" a nasal voice asked. 

Nero's jaw locked open and a chunk of potato nearly fell out. His and the other's heads all locked on Vergil, who slouched forward slightly over his half-finished plate. 

"What?" 

Vergil surveyed them all briefly but zeroed back in on his son as he clarified: "What kind of music does she practice?"

"Uh," Nero swept a napkin over his mouth just to be sure it still worked, "choir."

The man nodded. Whether it was an approving nod or a bored nod escaped Nero's comprehension. He didn't care, he had to remind himself. Kyrie is a talented, selfless, hard-working woman who happens to like him enough to let him stick around. Anyone who thinks otherwise can meet all four of his fists. 

"Her folks must've had a helluva time dealing with her singin', Credo's fancy sword stuff, _and_ takin' in a kid like you," Nico snickered. 

"If they were still around, they could tell you," Nero sighed, unable to help how his gaze narrowed at the suddenly frozen form of his father. "But the three of us looked out for each other as best we could."

"So you grew up an orphan," Vergil realized, his voice coming from somewhere Nero had yet to see.

"Most kids dumped on the church's doorstep get thrown into the orphanage, yeah."

Vergil hummed and suddenly found an interest in his food. 

Nero tossed his fork down and leaned forward, all of his focus zeroing in on his father. "You wanna fill in the blank there?"

"No," he said calmly.

"No, you don't want to or no, you can't?" Nero's voice rose an entire octave.

"Both."

"And what is so hard about giving a straight answer, huh?" Nero burst out. The table shook. "What good are you to anyone like that? You're even worse than V was!"

Silence surrounded them despite the spike in demonic energy that all but one of them assuredly felt. Dante continued idly chewing. Even Nico decided to take an opportune swig of her energy drink. 

Vergil hid half of his face behind folded hands but met Nero's furious glare head-on. "My answer would be no more helpful than those you already have."

"Whatever," Nero threw his chair back and stormed off, his jacket and a flurry of iridescent feathers billowing harshly behind him.

Dante double-taked at his nephew and back to his brother. He pointed at Vergil's half-finished plate and rose an eyebrow. "You gonna finish that?"

Vergil stabbed a piece of potato with his fork.

* * *

**05 December 12:34 AM**

The van was quiet, the dishes were piled up sky high, and Nico could not be bothered to wash them. She wasn't trying to be a little shit, no, but they were just _boring_. She needed to keep her hands real busy, throw all of her mind into something worthwhile. And that was where the breakers came in beautifully. So she got comfortable behind her workbench, picked up her blow torch, and got to work. Her welding helmet kept sliding down her face, but she scarcely made a move to fix it.

"You gonna hit the hay anytime soon?" Dante asked.

"Nah, I've got too much goin' on up here," she poked herself in the head, leaving a trail of grease at her temple and in her bangs. 

He shrugged and bade her goodnight as he left the van, her helmet bobbing up and down as she returned the sentiment.

"You're going to work all night?" Vergil asked from his little corner across from her. 

"Yup."

"How do you plan to stay up for so long?"

"Figure as long as I got a beautiful idea and enough of these tall boys," she shook the empty can and tossed it past Vergil's shoulder, where it bounced off the rim of a trash can and rattled around the ground, "I can keep goin' as long as I need to."

Vergil hummed and reached over to retrieve the wayward can. 

"This is how I came up with the devil breakers in the first place, y'know," she added. "Tough guy needed somethin' to kick your demon side's ass real quick, and I wasn't having a lotta luck in the way of guns, so I just downed a six pack and locked myself in here until I had something to give him."

"And you managed these all by yourself?" his brows raised slightly. He had seen some impressive feats from humans in his day, but they were typically fed by nefarious ambition or stolen power. Usually, all such vain pursuits ended in death. But here Nico still was, hunched over an indistinguishable pile of scrap that he had carried home in strained silence with Nero earlier. She didn't reek of demons or other unseemly auras, though she did scramble over herself at news that a few demon bits had been among their spoils. 

"I had a bit of help from my daddy," she murmured.

Vergil crossed him arms and focused on the darkened windows. Even he knew that she rarely spoke with anything other than a hearty chuckle. 

"And where is he?"

"About six feet under, but knowin' your lil' bro, probably a lot farther," she snickered. 

_Ah_ , Vergil almost blurted, but kept his frown and eyes averted away despite the gigantic helmet blocking most of Nico's field of view. Her voice held no malice, he noticed, and that sent his mind veering into the possibilities. Even when they last met she'd been more than happy to share every minute detail of her life, but the dire situation at hand had demanded their meetings be both brief and one-sided. Now, they had nothing but time, but he had no patience for simple dailies. V perhaps, but V wasn't in charge anymore. Not completely.

"What about you?" she shouted over the blast of her welding.

"What?" he murmured, refusing to raise his tone to meet her’s. 

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I don't need to," he said simply. 

"Don't you like some good ol' shuteye?"

"Not as much as Dante."

"Obviously," she laughed and the blow torch lit up her face again. 

Vergil took his place next to the makeshift vanity where Nico kept all her demonic books and research. He'd gone through everything he suspected of being relevant to the staff Nero had found, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to go through all of it. Twice. If he was especially thorough, he could easily have all night to himself as well. The only question he found himself contemplating was how tolerable Nico would remain with a flammable object in her hand the entire time.

So he takes a book in one hand, pen and notepad in the other, and gets to work. His eyes occasionally flit over to the workbench, in between sparks and clanging and everything noise in between.

Nico's welding turns into a form of white noise that no machine could hope to imitate. The ease with which Vergil finds it tolerable is certainly not what he would have expected. Then again, a lot of things had been rather unpredictable to him of late. 

For one, the thin rays of sunlight begin to peek through the van’s curtains quicker than he anticipates. Time was an enigma as far as the underworld was concerned, and he and Dante had little concern or want of it. It was exactly as he had declared upon their initial arrival—they had plenty of time, as was their to use as they liked. So they fought. And fought. And fought. 

But on this night Vergil has filled two whole legal notepads and stippled the spine of Nico's books with bookmarks and dog-ears. He can't say with any clarity that he has seen or realized any information of the mysterious staff and it is beginning to frustrate him. It's power was immense but fleeting, familiar but foreign, and much too coincidental for his liking. Yes, he had theories, but no solid proof. He is long past his youthful days of proceeding without full understanding of his subject, and he will not regress now. 

A sudden, large THUNK sends Vergil's reflexes into overdrive. He throws his book and pen down and has a ring of summoned swords in formation above his shoulders, ready to strike, when he looks down to only find Nico out cold on her workbench. The noise had been that of her welding mask, falling off her messy curls for the final time, though it completely failed to wake her. The carousel of Devil Breakers swings idly above her form, a mobile for a mechanic’s productive dreams. 

Vergil sighs. He is on his own again. Would he be breaking Nero’s rule on his research if he kept at it, or did Nico’s awkward slumbering count as supervision? 

Nero, he realizes, could lend a hand. Not literally. But surely he knew the area where they had found it and could elaborate on how it ended up there, what it looked or felt like before their arrival, or bring up a line of thinking his father simply hasn't considered yet.

But that would require asking for his help.

Vergil isn't sure the boy would rather do anything else _less_. Perhaps, if he challenged him to their overdue duel, they could reach something of a sensible agreement... but he isn't sure Nero would like that either. He seemed much more visibly restrained since their last meeting—and the fact they'd managed to get their errand done without a single blowup was almost certainly a record for their family. Fighting Dante is easy and instinctual; in the underworld, they rarely had to speak of it. And the less Dante spoke, the better Vergil's mood often was. So the months had passed quickly, smoothly. Had Nero not inadvertently called them, they might have still been there, dueling to no end. Like the two halves of their mother's perfect amulet, they simply had to be. Always had been, always would.

Nero upended all of that simply by existing. And then, simply by standing up and saying "no,” he had altered it entirely. But now there was a tenuous, steel balance between them. 

If there is one thing Vergil immediately admired about Nero, it was his tenacity. Yes, his son should strive to accomplish his goals with finite motivation and boundless strength. He expected nothing less of his kin. Even V had the strength of mind to see that in the one-armed boy who should have floundered at the loss of his power.

The only issue is when those goals directly contradict his own. And therein was where they stood currently: Nero demanding they stop fighting and masquerade as humans to what end? To stoop to their level? To waste his Qliphoth-given power on running mere errands for their motley crew? That was no way for lesser demons to live, let alone Sons of Sparda. If this damned artifact weren't confounding him so, he would be planning his next move, searching for a new source of motivation to keep him at the height of his throne, as he deserved. The underworld had the convenience of allowing him to quickly and easily dispatch any challengers that dared. Him leaving his rightful kingdom is just that—leaving that which is his for any and all to take. Or, as he had always known before, the most tenacious would make the difficult journey to the human realm to face him directly, and wreak havoc on the humans on the side. 

He still cares little for the general suffering of people; it was inevitable, whether he had hand or sword in it or not. It did not have to be Urizen who unleashed the Qliphoth, and it was Arkham who had finished the Temen-ni-gru's ascent. As much as it annoys him, Vergil himself has had only so much control over his own plots. And even in his absence, humans were more than capable of utilizing demonic chaos to their own ends, if any of Nico and Nero's mentions of Fortuna ring true with his own scrambled memories. He had read more about her father's findings in her notes—if he had met such a man in his day, he surely would have killed him, but then would Nicoletta have been born at all? And thus, would Nero have ever been able to advance his own power if her creations were not there to help him? So many factors rode on those small, incidental actions. And yet one of them had resulted in his son.

Vergil has yet to consider what the boy truly is. A mistake? A blessing? Surely there was no such thing, as long as his mother's presence felt so angelic and yet was snuffed from the world simply for existing. That Nero had survived so long and largely alone was a testament to his persistence. At least that much they have in common.

Nero can make his demands, and his father will consider them. That should be the most sensible way for them to proceed, especially with how much resentment he seems to carry. Nero is entitled to it, after all, and Vergil doesn't begrudge it. He certainly hated his brother for far less reason. 

But his nerves begin screaming and its not swords or welding that startle him, but an impending demonic aura. It’s sudden and bright and _powerful_. His eyes race around, searching for the staff, only to find it as dull and lifeless as usual. 

The van door opens and Nero's short snowy head darts to and fro, searching. 

"She just fell asleep," Vergil told him.

Nero startles and locks wide blue eyes on his father, all the youth in his gaze instantly hardening. _Ah_ , as expected. 

"All-nighter?"

Vergil nods, and begins busying his hands with tidying the books. 

"Well, if you need her to look at anything, you're gonna have to wait awhile," he sauntered up to the coffee maker and went about it. "She'll sleep for a day if you let her."

Still he prattled with his notes and books, refusing to allow his own price for the night be known. He does not need another lecture from his own son. Not so soon. 

"Why let her?" Vergil couldn't imagine a human needed to rest so long. He had not needed so much as a child, nor even Dante or his mother. But Nico, he could conclude thus far, is somewhat _besides_ a human. He still isn’t convinced she is entirely such.

Nero waltzed over to the workbench and inspected the mess of Devil Breakers for himself. "She works hard, gives me these things for a lot cheaper than she probably should, drives me everywhere—you name it. Least I can do is let her get some rest when she needs it.”

He took a long swig of coffee and followed it with a deep exhale, his eye darting around the van quickly. Uncertainly. Yet Vergil was almost certain he could hear an increased heartbeat, like he was used to within his enemies. 

"That's what normal people do," Nero finally glared at his father, not as harshly as he had before, but close enough. "Take of each other. Offer some basic respect."

Vergil met that glare, a mirror of his own. "That seems decidedly human."

Nero just shrugged. "Dunno. I haven't talked to a lotta demons lately. Usually they wanna get straight to fighting."

"That's... typical."

"Sure is."

And there they still stood, locked in a firm silence. Vergil's eyes fell back onto the thin book in the farthest reaches of his corner of the van.

Nero is his son, yes, but is not to be fathered. He has made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want such, anyway. Vergil does not and should not stoop to whatever childish level he occupies to just to enable some delayed version of parental rebellion. That was just pure immaturity on his part, but perhaps he could be taught out of it, if he simply refuses to indulge him.

Perhaps.

The young man in front of him grabbed a lid for his coffee and stuffed some sort of snack bar into his pockets. "I'm gonna head out on a few close jobs. Might take Dante with me..." He set the Red Queen on his back and stopped suddenly, doubling back. "...y'know, if she doesn't wake up before I get back."

Vergil nodded. Nero nodded, too.

An understanding. It would do. it was the best they could hope for, honestly. Vergil had no visions of anything less tenuous or violent. Their family simply wasn't capable of anything remotely 'normal.' Only a fool would have believed otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: “I expect nothing less from my kin” is an actual Vergil line in DMC5’s audio files that goes unused for some reason, but you can find it on YouTube easily enough. It feels so unique to Vergil and Nero’s fight that I couldn’t resist using it!
> 
> i have no excuses for the unexpected hiatus other than bad mental health and my only coping method was playing RE2. so, Mr X has been a great addition to the anxiety and my creativity fell off a roof. but, spardaverse helped bring it back! my piece is a Pacific Rim AU which is almost done and can be read [HERE!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593385/chapters/53993476)
> 
> i stg i'm not starting anything else absurdly long or intense so i can focus on this monster right here lol. thank you for being patient! you can check my [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/auraofdawn) for more specific info on updates but i'm hoping to avoid disappearing for a month again


	6. here, here, my friends and me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero decides it's time to take charge of his side of the business, but he needs to cash in some favors first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely planned an update for today just to say that I've posted something on a February 29th lol

> _And cramm’d into a space we blush to name—  
> _ _Proud royalty! How alter’d in thy looks!  
> _ _How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue!  
> _ _Son of the morning! whither art thou gone?_
> 
> _-_ The Grave, Robert Blair, 1743

**06 December 6:12 AM | Red Grave City**

Nero stirred early. He usually did, whether he liked it or not. The orphans rarely slept in, and even if they managed to stay quiet for awhile, Kyrie was usually up by the blue hour, ready and eager to start preparations for a long day of being an absolute angel. Or whatever it was that made her so selfless. 

She likes to tease him that its _his_ hour, too, that being up this early reminds her of his eyes. He could only blush and scratch his nose at her knowing smile.

God, he missed her. The past couple days felt more like two weeks with their new stowaways, and he didn't dare think it would get any easier anytime soon. The facts now had faces to them, and they were of his father, the cold demon king, and his uncle the debt-ridden clown. Somehow, he'd been blessed with a goddess named Kyrie amidst all that bad luck, and by whatever god had mercy on him, he was going to cherish her until it killed him.

Even in the dim light of the hostel room, he could spot the phone, calling him as much as he wanted to. It was so early; Kyrie probably wasn't in the shower or had started any breakfast yet. If he was quick enough...

But as if his will did the calling already, it rings first. He rushes over, a blink of crystalline feathers flying behind him mindlessly. 

"Hey, I was just—"

"Mornin' kiddo," a husky baritone greeted him instead.

Nero felt his lungs deflate. "Morrison?" he guessed, though his sleep-addled brain was getting groggier by the second. 

"I've got an important one for you this time," the broker went on and Nero staggered to catch up. 

"How so?"

"They fired Lady and Trish for taking too long, and they're offering extra if you rush."

"Now you're speakin' my language," Nero yawn-smiled. "Rush where exactly?"

"Back here to the office if you can," a long drag whistled on the other end and Nero still felt the need to grimace, "its a multi-stop shop."

"We're still in Red Grave."

"I heard. Client still asked for you personally, though."

"Alright, we'll try to get there as fast as we can. I've got some extra cargo to worry about, though." Through the window of the room, down a story, the curled neon font on the side of the van didn't glow, but there was unmistakable yellow light of the interior lamps peeking through the curtains. It was usually just Nico and her all-nighters, but he had a sneaking suspicion she had some company again. 

Nero hadn't heard the exact details of what went down when Morrison of all people claimed the deed to the abandoned Devil May Cry office, but Lady and Trish had handled it well enough thus far. They were even kind enough to throw him jobs every now and then, and he had a sneaking suspicion there weren’t just extra gigs sitting around. 

"Worry about it when you get here, then."

"I'm not so sure about that," Nero scoffed, but the line was already dead. 

Well, he thought. At least he didn't have to wonder what he was going to do today. He hated sitting around and twiddling his thumbs until someone called; it felt like wishing for something bad to happen, and that was the complete opposite of his business. There were just two slightly bigger issues that could affect his ability to perform said jobs, and maybe three, now.

Nico had indeed slept for an entire day; eighteen hours to be exact. Vergil had kept track. Nero didn't ask why or how. He managed to convince himself that it was just easy for him to know, what with how Nico seemed to have some weird fascination with the man. So much, in fact, that she seemed determined to piss all of them off just for a laugh. His fist clenched so much that he needed to distract himself with putting on his gloves in order to stop. Nico was just being Nico; always had, always would. Nero just hated the thought of her taking the side of the man _who had nearly ended the world_. They were partners, if not friends, going on almost two years now. Good friends, as far as he would have given her. Didn't friends back each other up, no matter how stupid or petty the argument? 

He would have known better if he had more friends. But that wasn't exactly plausible for a professional devil hunter from a cult island, now was it?

Its bad enough he has a family to worry about being pissed at for all time—he hates being mad at all these days. Its just a constant reminder of the power within him, dark and fiery and waiting to pounce on anything the vilest corners of his mind could validate. Half his brain knows he's a demon—a biological fact, as Nico herself had said—and yet he hates feeling like one. He had thought the name of Dante's business so odd back when he first started, because he liked the idea of making demons cry out for mercy. But when you are one, and you cry sometimes, that flips it all up, over, and around.

Things were so much simpler when he was an orphan.

Either way, he has to get ready. The early morning light blends in the with blue of his jacket waiting for him on the bare table of the room. Its so calm and dewy, this time of day, a part of him just wants to sit with a cup of coffee and breathe. Instead, he's probably looking at another hour or so of nagging his father and uncle into getting ready to leave and settling for a shitty breakfast of protein bars and energy drinks. And that was if the hostel staff didn't beg him to check out another demon issue around the block.

There just isn't the time to be mad at his absent father, or stupid uncle, or aggravating partner. Someone has to take charge of this sinking ship, even if it’s just to make sure he steps off as the others refuse to de-board. 

He just has to breathe. In, out, nose then mouth. That always helped. Everything comes into focus when he breathes, only partly because his senses are sharper than any other human's. 

And now there are steps on his floor. 

He’s used to hearing Nico's light boot steps before he ever sees her. Then usually came the grease from her tool belt or her hair, the occasional whiff of cheap hairspray, and sometimes their most recent meal. Today, it was garlic.

Nero kept his head down.

She only knocked once. He saw the shadow his feet made under the crack of the door and knew she had to see it, too. Still, he waited a good minute before he turned the nob and leaned on the door frame.

There she was, the same as ever, if only with slightly messier hair and noticeable bags under her eyes. They would go away the more she joked and smiled, he knew. Seeing them this clearly just meant she hadn't had her energy drink yet.

"Hey,” she said. 

"Hey,” he echoed. 

Her arm cane up like she wanted to point at something or grab him, but settled for an awkward grasp of her hair instead. She nodded her chin behind him and Nero blanched. Right at the phone. 

"Trish and Lady are gonna meet us at the office. Said they got something neat to show off,” she explained. 

Nero scoffed. “Can’t be anymore shocking than these jokers coming back.”

A devious smiled bloomed on Nico’s face, and Nero felt his anger begin to melt away. 

“Not if they don't know...”

He blanched. “You didn't tell them that they're back?”

An evil glint of lamplight reflected off her glasses. "Where's the fun in that?"

Nero rolled his eyes. There she was. 

"Well, Morrison just called. Said he had a few things to go over when we get there, so we gotta move out pronto."

Nico shook her head enthusiastically, all the curls on her head bouncing about in tune. "You want me to fire up my torch? Your dad's got a pair of horns just like it, but I bet if I set one of the books on fire he might light one under his ass!"

All the willpower in the world couldn't stop the devilish grin from growing on Nero's face. 

* * *

**06 December 4:12 PM | Slum Avenue**

The hot pink glow greeted them warmly, more so than the grungy alley or broken sidewalks ever could to the block Dante had called home for nearly three decades. Nero hadn’t been by very often—he considered it polite to leave Dante to his territory while he forged his own—so it still struck him, occasionally. To think this was the closest thing that remained of Sparda’s storied legacy; a dingy shop of horrors on Slum Avenue. 

Their mother would have shivered at the sight. And that was before she could have seen the inside. 

Morrison waits on the couch, smoke fogging up the entire office, and it smelled like he had been for awhile. 

The trio of Spardas all waved it aside, their faces a triplicate of disgust. 

“You fellas have a nice family reunion?” a low baritone chuckle cut through the smoke. 

Dante raised an eyebrow, then swerved to glance at Nero, who shrugged. 

He’d understood Dante’s initial silence on his family situation—he’d been much the same before everything—but that same silence had just made it all worse, and an entire city had to pay the price. Strangers were one thing, but a close business partner of decades was completely different. And as long as that complex family history played a direct role in said business, silence was a direct obstacle. Nero had done away with all that as soon as he’d gotten on firm enough ground with the broker; it just seemed necessary. 

Morrison was the most understandable person he knew, next to Kyrie and Nico. It was nice. The man had even tried to insist that he didn’t need to be given the Sparda Family History Lesson, but Nero had stressed that he very much did, in the wake of the Qliphoth. If he was going to take over Devil May Cry entirely, he was going to improve it, too. And that meant more straight answers, more honesty, more strategy. 

If Dante didn’t like that, then he could fuck right off. 

“As good as can be,” Nero muttered, flipping on the fan. 

“Sorry I couldn’t have a bouquet waitin' for you, Dante,” Morrison winked, “But you’ve never been one for RSVPs, huh?”

“Can’t say that I ever plan to,” he smirked, shaking the broker's hand. His other hand pointed towards the dark blue figure frowning at the furniture. “That’s my brother, Vergil.”

“Ah,” Morrison saluted with his cigar, “so I’ve heard. But we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

Vergil didn’t like the spark of familiarity in the man’s tone at all. He’d been much easier to work with when he knew nothing and made no assumptions. That was pure business. If he wanted a friend, he would have hired him for that instead. 

“Technically, yes.”

“Well, I always like to see a client again, so welcome back.” But even as he said it, Morrison regarded them all seriously. 

Dante sauntered to his desk and leapt back into the chair in one suave movement. Nero rolled his eyes. 

“Well, give it to us straight, Morrison.”

“Can't tell you much about the this client. They didn’t give me a name at all. Just a list of demands.”

“And?”

“Sent in an order for all kinds of crazy shit," Morrison swung his cigar around, the trails of smoke painting a troubling picture. "Bells and whistles and the like.”

Nero pulled the mysterious artifact out of his coat and put it on the desk. “Like this staff?”

“Looks like the same kinda stuff.”

“I found this in Red Grave. But a fisherman told me about it, because it was attracting demons.”

Morrison shrugged noncommittally. 

But Nero kept pressing forward, the thread in his mind demanding to be followed as far as it could go. “You think its a collector?”

“Probably. I don’t ask or judge usually. They’re good business, and I _like_ good business.”

“You’d rethink that mantra if it threatened your life,” Vergil warned. 

“I would,” Morrison flexed the lapels of his jacket, almost daring the dark slayer to actually challenge him, "but I'm still here, ain't I?"

Vergil had to admit that much—the broker was anything but a fool. But he wasn't about to compliment a human as such. Yet here was another human ally Nero allowed so close, another vestige of control so easily and callously given away. How his son could stand to go about with such little consideration for all his assets stoked an familiar annoyance within him. This would not do, not for a slayer of his blood. Nero would need to known better and soon.

He would have to be shown, surely. But how, when he clearly detested Vergil's mere presence around the mobile business? They had reached the office, now, so Nero would be on his way with his misguided methods and more threats towards his father and uncle. He'd be shocked if the child left him with anything less than another curse or rude gesture. Most likely, both. 

As much as Nero had demonstrated his desire to keep his family alive, he clearly had no want to spend much time around them. And Vergil couldn't blame him. They had all functioned individually the best, either way. This could be the only way for them to live at all.

* * *

**06 December 4:31 PM | Devil May Cry**

Lady found the big city both too busy and stuck-up in her time. Sure, someone of her background and means could have easily done well there, but that was exactly where the cons lied. She would either be babied or rejected, and she had time for neither. So she stays in a small place on the outskirts of Capulet, rather than that which was expected of her, in her previous life. After all, what did that get Red Grave? A gigantic demon tree that literally ate them alive? All the money in the world couldn't have stopped that, and her slimy adopted home had been plenty safe.

She only lives to keep up her booming business and kill every demon that came her way. The custom builds from Nico and slower days spent with Trish were just an added bonus that kept her sane on her worst days. No on with a pulse will hear anything otherwise from herself. 

But she will not do so with Dante. And _especially_ not his headcase of a twin. Nero is a special exception she's still evaluating; as far from his bloodline as he had strayed, there was still plenty of time for the unseemly influence of his family members to rub off on him. Perhaps, if they just never came back from hell, she would add him and that lovely girl to her small rotation. 

Yet she cannot fathom the shock that enters her veins when she and Trish waltz into the office they'd shared for six months, only to find Dante at his desk like he'd never left, flanked by his brother and nephew. It was a nightmare come to life in front of them, with rumbling stomachs and empty pockets.

"What. The. Hell?!"

"Hey ladies! Glad you could make it!" Dante smirked like he always did, but it set fires in the eyes of them.

"You think you can just walk back in here like nothing?"

"Well, we didn't so much walk here as the kids gave us a ride," he motioned awkwardly at Nero and Nico, who were rolling their own eyes.

"Us?" Trish turned and found Vergil lounging in the corner, his fingers frozen above the dusty cover of a book. He didn’t glare, but his grey eyes narrowed like he wanted to.

Lady charged up to the desk, her finger ready to stab Dante in the chest. “No, no, no, you have six months of rent that we covered for your ass! _With interest!_ "

"Alright, alright," he raised his arms and averted his gaze, lest he wind up with another bullet in his forehead. "I can start payin' you back right away if these jobs pan out..."

The lethal ladies locked in on Morrison, who watched with a mirth of amusement. 

“You told him about all the calls?" Trish asked.

"'Course. I get a lot of calls but not this many for so much at once. I need some good hunters to get on them and get me my cut."

“Well don’t count on _me_ to help _him_ ,” Lady snapped at Dante again. 

“We can split into pairs,” Nero offered, his voice the only level one in a room where everyone in it was older than him. “You can stay with Trish if you want.”

Lady only huffed her agreement. Trish sauntered to her side and leaned on her shoulder. The walking arsenal calmed considerably more. 

“We should be fine, if you’ve got something good for us.”

“Wait,” Nico popped up, literally and figuratively, her eyes darting around excitedly, “what about the thing you’ve got for us?”

Lady and Trish shared a stern glance, a silent question between them. _Are we sure?_ They wondered to themselves and each other. A long pause stretched around them, for as long as they needed to know. 

They shared one last sigh and Lady removed a gun from her backpack. A twin gasp echoed around the Spardas as they surged forward to inspect it. 

“Wait, that’s—“ Dante began. 

“—Nightmare-beta,” Vergil finished. 

Trish nodded but stepped in front of Lady, shielding her from their eager eyes. 

“Nightmare as in,” Nero double-takes at his father and back, ” _his_ Nightmare? The demon?”

“Not quite the same,” Trish answered, “it’s exactly as the name implies: this was Mundus’ first attempt at creating Nightmare in the form of a weapon.”

“And it looks like a sick one!” Nico exclaimed despite Nero elbowing her. “Y'know, for an evil demon gun.”

Dante whistled and began to circle the pool table. "Last I heard that thing caught a low price at auction. I think I _owed_ money to someone for it."

Lady rolled her eyes and scoffed. "I wouldn’t be surprised. But we found it in the hands of some demons the other day, and it didn’t seem like they got it politely."

"Just like it didn’t seem like this thing just decided to put on a light show," Nico added.

"It can’t just be coincidence," Nero sighed. "I don’t like the feeling of both of these things turning up with demons as the same time."

"Neither do I. We’ll need everything we’ve got," Dante agreed. 

"No, I need what you owe me!" Lady pointed at him, a fire in her mismatched eyes. "The gun that I paid for, please."

"What, this one?" he held up the Kalina Ann II and began pleading with his eyes. "Can’t Nico make you a new one?"

"You were supposed to bring it right back, not disappear!"

“But I _want_ it,” Dante whined with all the notes of the orphans Nero helped raise, not a grown man. And here he was, clinging to a rocket launcher like it was his favorite toy. 

Lady surged forward and snatched the gun back with a frustrated scoff, but Nero was surprised to see how easily she did so. Dante certainly didn't let go—the sadness on his face spoke to a broken heart—but even a son of Sparda was powerless against the fury of an arsenal of arms.

"Can we get back to the actual business, maybe?" Trish glared at them all with annoyed sparks in her narrow eyes.

"There is an interesting part of the gig, if you like drama,” Morrison crooned with a raised eyebrow. 

The Spardas blanched. 

"It seems like some corporate bigwig is mad at one of their friends, because they want you after them."

"Why not just call the police or someone who actually cares?" Lady wondered aloud.

"How do you think they even found you? It’s got demons. They want it done on the down-low." 

"Well, that one’s got you written all over it, brother." Dante clapped Vergil in the back. His brother just hummed that annoying little tick of his. 

Nero already had enough. “So these jobs are all addressed to me specifically?” he studied the broker seriously. 

“Sure are. Word’s been out about Dante’s absence long enough that most regulars have assumed him dead or retired,” Morrison explained with a burly chuckle. 

The legendary devil hunter shrugged and twirled his pool cue about with boredom. He studied the balls on the table with whatever concern he could muster. 

“That means _I_ get to decide how we do this,” Nero muttered.

Dante’s chin shot up fast. 

“We?” Nico looked at him sideways, and for once it seemed like she wasn’t two steps ahead of him. 

“Well, that’s way too many orders for just you and me, right?” he asked and she nodded. “So it’ll be faster if we split up and took 'em like an actual company of hunters.”

“You in?" he asked Lady and Trish. "Fair split; totally up to you."

The ladies looked at him, seemingly waiting to decide if they had to give him the same glares they reserved for his father and uncle. Then at each other they spoke wordlessly with pointed glances and small facial ticks. 

Nero could only look nervously between them.

Then Lady give him a shockingly sincere smirk. “Well, well, it sure is something to be given a choice for once!”

“See what happens when you ask nicely, Dante?” Trish cocked her chin mockingly.

He paid little attention to them, his eyes still on the position of the pool balls. And his brother. 

Nero strode right up to the man leaning in the corner and cleared his throat loud enough for the deaf to hear. Vergil’s attention was quick to catch but slow to brew; he didn’t tune in completely until it became clear his son would not accept a half-interested glance. All his body language demanded the same respect from his father, and the air around them became charged with it. 

Dante took his cue and aimed the shot. 

Nero pointed a finger at his father like he was pointing a blazing Red Queen. "You owe me."

Vergil lowered his chin and stood his ground like he was about to draw Yamato. "Do I?"

"Don’t play dumb now, old man!"

"Wait," Dante put down his cue and looked between them seriously. "Do you really?"

“For dragging his scrawny ass up the Qliphoth—and that’s not even counting my arm or everything else." Like a city’s worth of souls. Or a childhood of loneliness. A lifetime of questions. 

Vergil met his son’s gaze head on, his face betraying nothing behind his stormy grey eyes. "So, you want to cash it in on what? My help?"

Nero reaches for the staff on the desk, it’s dull gem reflecting all the edges of his face back at him. “This thing brought both of you back, so it’s connected to us somehow. You both know your share of wacky demon shit, so you’re qualified to help. And that’s what you’re gonna do." 

It was a tremendously stupid idea, and Nero could feel himself wanting to regret it as soon as the words left his mouth. But just leaving them here to rot like they had in hell for the past six months hadn't done jack shit, either. But this was something, and something was better than nothing. Taking down the Qliphoth was just step one of the Sparda Family Apology Tour. Step two was help Nero. Step three, kill demons. Step four? Act like an actual fucking family? That might be the most difficult of all. 

"Or else?"

"Or I just kick your asses again. Take your pick." 

Dante rubbed his hands together. "Hey, we gotta pay the bills somehow, huh? Lady and Trish managed the keep the lights on, but I’m not about to rely on charity any longer." 

“Sure thing, uncle dumbass.”

Dante smirks wider. He’d never dared imagine what actually being an uncle was like, so much so that he’d downright avoided it by any means necessary for five whole years. But now? He could take any insult the kid would throw at him, as long as “uncle” still sounded so right. 

“What about you, brother?” Dante nudged him with the pool cue, earning a firm swat. 

Vergil’s breath came out through his nose. "I believe I am obligated, either way." 

"Still think you won’t lose next time?"

“I will not.” he narrowed his eyes, a distinct shine to its clear grey glow. 

“C’mon Verge.” Dante clapped his back. “We didn’t get to have any family road trips. S’not too late to start now!

"This is a job, Dante. Not a game." 

"It can be if you know how to have fun!"

Vergil huffed and stalked off to his corner again. 

Nero rolled his eyes. 

Dante threw himself backward onto the pool table and nailed a shot into the corner pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert jak and daxter THIS ISNT A GAME.gif here]
> 
> fun fact: Sparda Family Road Trip is the name of this doc, and for awhile i was tempted to make that the title! I'm just gonna settle for calling it that bc the acronym for the actual title is TDGMA and i hate that, so family road trip it is! On the subject of titles, I hope someone's noticed that all of them so far have been due to Bastille's song "grip" There are 2 versions of it, the popular edm one and a slower one, but I've come to feel that the slower one suits this a lot better! However, for this chapter I'd suggest listening to another song of theirs, 4AM, and hopefully you'll hear why ;D this entire fic is basically what I get for being so obsessed with Bastille lmao
> 
> there is actually an entire like, 20-song playlist I've been feeding off of, so i'll post it eventually probably! see you (hopefully) next week!


	7. a walking disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jobs are given out and teams are made up--some to more success than others. (sorry, Nero)

> _Where are the jesters now? the men of health_   
>  _Complexionally pleasant? Where the droll,_   
>  _Whose very look and gesture was a joke_   
>  _To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,_
> 
> \- Robert Blair, 1743

**07 December 8:35AM | Devil May Cry**

The strong, musky smell of black coffee still isn't quite enough to mask Slum Avenue's signature scent, Nero thinks. But he doesn't need it to be an air freshener right now as much as he need it to just. Wake. Him. Up. The night had not been on his side, but he only had himself to blame for it. Relying on Dante's hospitality had traditionally spelled out a bad time for Nero, and this one spelled c-r-o-w-d-e-d. Yes it was naive to assume that getting out of the van would make things any easier, but just putting his head on a pillow had been tough.

Dante himself was a horrendously loud sleeper—probably bred from a couple decades of living on his own. But even the separation of rooms and pillows couldn't stop the man's snores. It was as pointless to avoid as a strike from his namesake sword, and Nero quickly resigned himself to a fitful sleep. 

Vergil was offered a spare bedroom and even one of the couches, but instead claimed another corner for himself and his notes. His father’s sleep habits were no longer mysterious to Nero, but he’d greatly misunderstood how difficult trying to sleep while a cold, focused aura burned the midnight oil in the next room. 

Nero is also starting to understand why they fought so much—the overflow of energy is just too much to be contained within a single building. How they and Sparda had ever co-existed as a family in the same house was beyond him. Surely, his grandmother had to have employed magic just to keep the peace. 

Nevertheless, he gives up around the blue hour again and trudges his way to the nearest coffee pot. 

Wordlessly, Vergil actually follows him. 

“I called dibs on the first cup,” Nero warned in a yawn, upending his usual temper. It’s too early to be mad at anything other than the sun and his stiff limbs, he thinks. 

His father merely stalled—physically and mentally, he realized with a mirthless smirk—and stared at him. Again with those pale blue icicles that had sent a shiver through his spine when they bore through him for the first time at the bottom of the Qliphoth. It had struck him, that a man so similar to Dante in looks could have such starkly different eyes. It certainly explained why his were so much harder to read than Dante’s, why Nero hated meeting them still, why he could feel them on his back constantly. 

Nero buried the resulting shiver with another gulp of coffee, barreling past the burn on his tongue and throat. The warmth would settle him, like it always did, like it only could in the absence of Kyrie’s smile or the kids’ laughter. 

“No thank you,” Vergil said. 

Nero shrugged and sighed all the nerves from his shoulders into his toes. Maybe a few more cups would get him to that good place—or anywhere remotely jazzed enough to roll all his father’s quirks right off his back. 

The newest one was exactly what his new corner was: Dante's old drinking bar. All the trash and bottles had been cleared away for books and notebooks to replace them. Still, Vergil looked hilariously out of place due to the collection of liquor that covered the shelves behind him, their shine cancelled out by the dull layer of dust surely accumulated by Dante's absence. 

But somehow Vergil persists, sliding gracefully onto the bar stool and picking up where he left off. 

"You found anything in there yet?" he asks before the nerve can leave him with the next sip.

Vergil's head snaps up, but his eyes ask, _what?_

"You've been reading enough, shouldn't you know what that thing is by now?"

The man just hummed, but set the book back down and crossed his arms. His gaze looked everywhere else until they rested on the mysterious staff of question, nestled amongst his research.

"I've made arrangements, actually."

Nero froze and all the coffee in the city couldn’t have thawed him. “You? Made plans?”

Vergil held up his notes. "To study the staff. Nicoletta's books haven't offered much helpful insight, so I asked her to have the broker look up some local sources on my behalf."

Nero’s jaw just hangs open for a moment before he can pick it up. "Well, that’s fine, but we're making the stop after the job. Money comes first."

Vergil just nodded mutely. Nero stares a few seconds too long, waiting for something, anything to tell him how to react. For the scowl to appear or the narrowed eyes. But his father remains as blank as a sheet. He still doesn't like it.

"We have to head back to Red Grave for it, but Nico and Dante need the van, so..." Nero scratched the back of his head awkwardly, glancing between his cold face and the sword at his hip.

"Ah," Vergil tutted.

He held the saya up to his waist, ready to draw, until he stopped and glanced between Nero and the door. And back again.

"Where exactly?"

Nero shrugged. "Morrison mentioned the financial district, but I can't say I've ever had a job there before."

Vergil just sighed and Nero felt his nerves begin to run down already. It was too damn early for this.

"Just get us there and we'll figure it out as we go." Hopefully it wouldn't be too different from travelling across the city with V, that once. He'd been quiet, he'd been dodgy, but he'd been pretty damn helpful. Even now he has to admit: taking down demons side by side on a flying stage had been pretty sick. Whether or not that's the V he gets out of Vergil today is up in the air. 

The man of question nodded and sliced the air in a single, quick motion, and Nero couldn't help the small shiver that blew through his spine. Whether it was the cold December air or the unnatural breeze that slipped through dimensions didn't matter. Seeing the world as he knew it be torn asunder was a sight and feeling he might never get used to. And, as he bites down on his own tongue and feelings, it heralds memories he's spent the last six months trying to bury.

Nero clenched his right hand and rushed through the tear. 

The air that greets him in Red Grave is noticeably warmer, though still tinged by the sea salt of the nearby port. This street doesn't seem too populated—thank god—and he doesn't wanna think about explaining to random bystanders how on earth he has just appeared out of nowhere. It was bad enough explaining to clients how he was able to handle demons of all kinds with only a single sword and a gun. People expected more of a Lady-type out of most devil hunters, apparently, so he has half a mind to tell her to stop making him look so bad.

Wind shifts again, and Vergil appears at his son's side as all evidence of their journey disappears from sight.

Nero turned in a circle trying to find some kind of landmark he could recognize. "Where are we?"

"A section of the city I spent some time in, while you were gone."

"Oh," Nero blinks, remembering. That entire month of V protecting the city all by himself. While all forces, demonic and human alike had fled the city, he remained. 

Vergil just stands and stares, like the statues his marbled face so often resembled. 

"Uh, earth to V," Nero called, "what the hell are you lookin' at?"

To anyone else it was only a block of relatively undisturbed buildings. A couple shops, a cafe and a bank, all of them seemingly still abandoned. The signs were in various states of disrepair, save for a large block-printed ANTIQUES lettering hanging over a glass window, shattered and splintered all over the street.

Vergil's head veered to his side but didn't make eye contact. And back again. As was becoming usual. Nero was three seconds to barking at him to hurry up again when the man finally moved, brushing past his own son like a stranger running late for an engagement.

"Nothing."

* * *

**07 December 12:48 PM | Slum Avenue**

Morrison always handed out jobs like it was no big deal—and it wasn't to _him_ , anyway—but the circle of devil hunters had immediately eyed each other wearily. There were only three jobs for the five of them—six if you counted Nico, who absolutely counted herself.

First they had to split up, and that was the easy part. Trish and Lady were attached at the hip, sometimes literally, and no one would dream of fighting them over that. Dante initially asserts that he can handle the nearest one alone—this is his territory, after all—but Nico _insists_ on giving him a ride. He just gawks at her for a minute, but he can't really find it within him to crush her spirit. If she was anything like Patty, surely, she wouldn't be discouraged so easily. Besides, she had made some sick stuff for him _for free_ , and he's certainly keen to see what she cooks up next.

Nero, however, will not have it. After enough darting stares and glares it becomes clear to everyone but him that he will be stuck with his father. _Again_. He all but roars at his uncle to take his turn with Vergil, while the man in question just rolls his eyes at both of them. 

"I'll play you," he suggests.

"In what?" Dante cocked an eyebrow and motioned at his games around the office. "Darts? Pool?"

"No way," Nero spat, "you'll cheat! We only settle things one way in Fortuna." 

The young devil hunter curled his fist over an open palm and held them both out towards his uncle, waiting. "Rock, paper, scissors."

Dante couldn't help but laugh. This kid just kept finding new ways to make him feel old, but that didn't mean he wanted him to stop anytime soon.

"Your loss, kid," he warned, but all it did was make Nero's face scrunch up in that challenging-but-overconfident face he had. Vergil had the same one, of course, though he didn't seem to show it as much as he used to. 

Nico's whooping and hollering echoed off Trish and Lady's taunts in the background, but none of it changed the result Dante expected: a whopping three-oh in his favor, even after Nero's angry demand for a three out of five over two out of three. Vergil's obnoxious eye-rolling from his corner was just the cherry on top of the triple-strawberry sundae, and all of it kept Dante at a satisfied high for the rest of the night. 

By the time he woke up at the relatively decent hour of noon, Nero and Vergil were long gone. A part of him was sad to see them go because he would have loved to _see_ them go, as hilarious as watching father and son attempt to coexist was; they brought him more entertainment than any job, magazine, or game could. He knew how stubborn and stuck-up his old brother was, and he certainly recalled how brash and stubborn his punk nephew could be. Those two had a helluva road ahead of them towards whatever kind of family they wound up being, and Dante wanted to kick back and watch as much of it as possible. 

So when it came down to it, he chose the closest, easiest job Morrison had, just so he could be back at the office before they would.

When he's awake enough, Dante just lounges in the front seat of the van. He can see why the kid always calls shotgun—these seats are so much more plush than the secondhand couches in the back. But he doesn’t have much taste for it—too soft, too bouncy—because of all his practice falling asleep in that old, wooden desk chair. It was firm, steady, and good. There just wasn’t much point to a cushy bed after that.

"Ready to move out?" Nico calls excitedly, her eyes practically bugging out of her glasses. 

Dante yawns. "Where to?"

"Morrison said somethin' about a crater?"

Dante's eyes sprang up, alongside his spine and legs. 

Nico’s head bobbed to the side with all her youthful curiosity. "That place bad or what?"

"It has a bad history," was all Dante could bring himself to explain, even as he pulled the Faust hat down further, to hide whatever betrayals his eyes might show.

Nico, Nell bless her, is as oblivious as her father. She just shrugs and turns back to the wheel, her hands on the keys and her mouth revving at a mile a minute.

* * *

**07 December 1:23 PM | The Crater**

It's been a while. An entire _Nero_ , his brain provides with a laugh his lungs don’t share. The tower was long gone—a single night of horror abruptly begun and ended. Cultists and conspiracy theorists had gone on for years trying to figure the mystery out. Dante made a game of collecting all the wild front pages that they'd line up at the corner stores while he picked up pizza. Aliens were a popular theory, and frankly, they weren't far off. The official city stance had been that an earthquake ‘misplaced’ several blocks of older buildings, thus giving the illusion that something had suddenly erupted from the earth. But there was never any shortage of on-scene witnesses that would challenge the narrative. 

Dante didn't care to correct either side. The less people knew about demons, the less he'd have to deal with them. And after he took care of Mundus, there was just no point beyond the money. He had managed to get a new shop out of all the chaos, and that was all he could really ask for. 

The gaping hole left behind by that damned tower raised the most questions, but it had long been filled and paved over. It was only still called the Crater because of the circular din shape of the new buildings around it. Locals swore it wasn't like that before, and the new, unique shape of the area had been a tourist draw for a bit. But then, the nature of being downtown set in, and now it was as dirty and dank as his original place on Slum Avenue.

“So what’s the plan here?” Nico planted her chin in her hands and gazed up at him. 

Dante stiffened. _This_ was why he had always worked alone. Trish and Lady preferred their space, anyway. Too many hunters in the building was indeed a thing they'd all grown weary of. 

“You stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Nico made a pouty face but immediately steeled herself and straight-up saluted him as he walked out the door. She hung onto the door frame and swung around like a rag doll off it, shaking her fist like she was only missing some pom-poms. “Go put the legend in legendary devil hunter!”

He waved without turning. Anymore and she was either gonna make him cringe or blush. He had no idea which would feel worse. 

To any other bystander, Dante would just appear as an older man taking a nice mid-afternoon walk through a shady section of the city. To demons, he would seem like easy prey in broad daylight. But sometimes it would pay off, and he could just waltz in and out of a job without having to deal with all the annoying pleasantries like small talk or break-ins. Sometimes the best approach was literally to just walk in and take the thing, deal with who or whatever also wanted it, and then get paid. 

It's much easier to focus, anyway. On his self, and his keen senses reaching out towards the small specks of demonic power that could either be harmless or harmful.

He gets right up to the spot. He knows its here because some off the jagged rocks have been left around—as _art_ , he was stunned to read in the paper one day—and the unmistakable patterning of demonic stone threaded into veins of rock was impossible to miss. Chalk it up to humans to take a piece of something that should've killed 'em and turn it into something almost pretty. 

He circled the rocks for a lap and pulled a small picture out of his pocket. The glittering blue and red stones looked like they belonged in the window of a local thrift store, but Dante knew genuine article when he saw it, and this was certainly it. He couldn't see it in the rocks, though, so he crackled his knuckles and grasped the head of the plaque in front of them all. It nicely listed the artist's name and all the effort and intent that went into these fancy rocks Dante had once punched and kicked aside like nothing.

"Sorry," he said while he punched it. 

The plaque fell into pieces, spilling a waterfall of marbled rock that sparkled bright in the midday sun. Most of it is blue, but there's a single, almost perfectly carved shard of red that screams out for him. The jagged red stone is light in his hand, but heavy in his grasp of its power. Almost like a tiny battery! He could see why some random human would want it—objectively, it was a pretty little thing that could look nice on a wall. But it’s power seethes into his skin, his inner demon screaming for it, and he doesn’t like where it makes his thoughts go. 

It’s familiar, in a host of ways, but all freaky demon things were to him. Vergil would want a look, Nero would keep it away from him, and they’d have a brand new fight on their hands. Maybe this one was better kept to himself...

He tossed it idly up into the air and caught it, again and again until he reached Nico’s grinning face popping out the window at him. 

Dante grimaced. 

“Whatcha got there?” she asked. 

“Just some shiny rocks.”

“Really? Those don’t look like any ol’ rocks,” she adjusted her glasses and leaned so far forward Dante paused below the window in case he needed to catch her. 

He shrugged. “They’re demon rocks. Nothin’ special.”

She huffed and then twisted so suddenly she almost fell over. “Hey, watch your six!”

A crowd of riots came rolling in fast—so fast Dante realized they’d knock the van over if he wasn’t careful with how he stopped them. 

“Stay back!” The deep layers of his voice reverberated through the wreath of power from his trigger as he shifted and stood his ground, arms up at the elbows and waiting. 

The first riot barreled into his guard and was blown back, its quills splintering off its back like dirt clogs. The second tried to turn and hit Dante sideways, only to be partied into oblivion as he charged forward almost perfectly—aw, well, there was one more chance for him to really knock it out of the park. But it was slowing down dramatically, and right when Dante would have parried, it leaped back and somersaulted over the van. 

Right as Nico was stepping out the door. 

“Get down!” Dante shouted and vaulted over the roof as his senses screamed at the short gap between the human scent and a demonic presence. 

But he was too fast, too messy, too frenzied, and he screwed up the landing. His feet landed at awkward angles and he knew a regular human would have had a pair of shattered ankles to show for it. Yet Dante slid almost face first into the pavement, only to catch himself at his elbows with enough time to see if he could charge in front of Nico if he had to. 

And there she is, but she’s fine. A look of utter determination steels what little bit of her eyes that he can see through her welding mask as she points a spray can and lighter at the riot. The demon was actually hesitant, it seemed, as it curled into a defensive position and waited for Nico to move whatever contraption she’d dreamed up now. 

“Back it up, ya big porcupine! ‘less you wanna be barbecue!” 

The riot growled and drew its claws. 

Nico downright laughed in its face. From behind the metallic mask she sounded downright demonic, unless that was Dante's old ears driving him crazy again. But the artisan of arms was certainly a nightmare in this demon's eyes, when all it took was a twitch of two fingers on the spray can for a flame to burst to life from her hands.

“Burn, bitch, burn!”

Dante's hands flew up instinctively to cover his face from the wave of heat, but he couldn’t bear to cover the tiny grin that bloomed at the sound of Nico’s cackling layered over the riot’s pained groans. It squealed and squawked and tried to roll away on singed quills, only to crash into the nearest building and collapse in a burning heap. Still, Nico kept alert, her makeshift flamethrower darting from side to side as she searched for any other stragglers. When she couldn't find any, she just pulled her mask up and fanned her face. 

"Not bad," Dante admitted with a smirk and a nod.

Nico's million-watt smile could have lit the entire block, with light or fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering--yes Nico's hairspray flamethrower is 100% inspired by the brooklyn 99 scene where gina does it! most of what gina does on that show just screams nico at me, so if they ever sound similar, that's why lol 
> 
> I know some people have headcanoned Dante at being good a pool or darts--the anime goes the extra mile of establishing him as good at them, but terribly unlucky when he bets, so I thought, what if he's only really good/lucky at useless ones like rock paper scissors? lol he absolutely is the person who plays really slow so he can cheat and change his hand at the last second, Nero's just too naive to notice.
> 
> anyway, more father-son road tripping coming up! it would've been here but there was a LOT of it and I'm not trying to post 5k updates unless i absolutely have to, okay. i also have a bit more of a buffer built up now so we should be okay for the next few weeks, maybe even over a month! I just hit 70k+ words this this week, so I am absolutely not going anywhere lmao


	8. a promise of a better time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero and Vergil tackle their part of the job, along with some lost family secrets.

> _Proud lineage! now how little thou appear’st!  
> _ _Below the envy of the private man!  
> _ _Honour, that meddlesome officious ill,  
> _ _Pursues thee e’en to death!  
> _ \- _The Grave_ , Robert Blair, 1743

**07 December 11:28 AM | Red Grave Financial District**

The landmark that's supposed to spare them hours of wandering through opulent office buildings is just a stupid plaque. _That's how you'll know its the real place_ , Morrison's note read. _The others are all just branches, not their HQ._

Its a huge thing, almost as tall as an average child, and set in aged bronze. Vergil can pin its relative age at nearly two centuries upon sight of the warping on the lettering. Nero just sees the same relative color of all the Order’s fancy plaques. All these hoity-toity types were into the same shiny stuff. 

_Sparda fought for human interests, so we can offer low interest!_ It boasts, going on and on about an exaggerated origin story of Red Grave's _first and foremost!_ banking institution.

"Sparda Express?" Vergil narrows his already-thin eyes at the signage. 

Nero frowns. “It’s just branding. Nico has a tool set named after him, too.”

Vergil scoffs. Does humanity think so little of the demon who saved them? He looks close to snarling, but Nero lets him be. The young devil hunter can actually, somewhat, understand. It always disgusted him, the overuse of Sparda’s name. The Order always labeled it a big no-no—taking the Savior’s name in vain, they claimed—but Nero just saw it as poor taste. Just slap some old fairy tale on a coffee cup and suddenly you could brag about a devious dark roast or a heavenly latte and the sheep would follow. 

The bank was a little gauche on the spectrum, but it was just harmless advertising. 

"C'mon, you can file a complaint later," Nero yanked at his father's attention yet again. "We just need to find a certain teller. There’s a safety deposit box the client wants access to, and this guy supposedly has an in. If he gives it up, we take it. If he refuses, we shake him down." 

“And you’re fine with this?” Vergil muses with a raised eyebrow. “What if they’re human?”

“Then we ask nicely.” Nero could figure anyone involved in jobs like Dante's and Morrison’s was mildly shady and probably deserving of the hits that were called in on them. But he considered himself a decent judge of character, and he could certainly tell when a subject was a victim rather than real trouble. It would do him well here, and his father would see that he had no reason to look at his own son like that again.

From the blurry picture that Morrison has provided, the teller is a stocky, glasses type. They could have spotted the guy in a crowd, if there was one to found outside a bank on a weekday morning. And there they were, sitting on a bench next to the branch starting an early lunch. Its so quaint and mundane Nero almost wants to turn around and go. Red Grave still has so far to go on the way to normalcy, he knows. Things had taken so long to calm down and readjust back home; every little thing held an extra bit of meaning back to him now. Kyrie’s meals, the kids playtime, a night without demons. This poor soul is just trying to enjoy a break, and they're about to ruin it.

But in breaking with Dante's company standard, Nero goes about things a bit differently. 

"Excuse me," Nero coughs as politely as possible.

The teller takes one, long wide-eyed look at a young man with a sword on his back and the older man with a katana in his hand. They blinked, set their sandwich down, and took off down the sidewalk with a cartoonish gait.

Vergil breaks after them, but Nero dives to catch his shoulder before he can teleport. 

"Wait," he calls and shoves his father behind him none-too-gently. "Let me handle this!"

Vergil studied him critically but backed off, his hands sliding off of Yamato's hilt.

Nero took the opportunity to whip out his wire snatch towards the top of the building. It caught at the just to right angle to pull him into the air, flying up and forward with enough momentum to somersault over the running teller and cut them off.

"P-please! Spare me!" the teller yelped and fell into a cowardly kneel.

"Relax," Nero crooned, to no effect. "We're not here to kill you." _Probably_ , he thought to himself, but every second the guy cowered made all the fight flood out of him. It would just be sad to cut down a poor soul like this. He'd never had a taste for executions. 

Nero handed the client's paper over. "We just want to see what's in a safety deposit box." 

The teller raised their glasses and squinted keenly at the note but frowned. "But you—? A-and then? That would mean..."

"Get on with it," Vergil snapped, drumming his fingers on Yamato's pommel.

"I don't have access to this box!" they squealed and hid their face with blocky arms. 

Vergil sauntered forward, his patience clearly spent. "You work here, do you not?"

The teller nodded in between shakes of fear. Nero stood closely by, in case he needed to step in front of them or stab his father. Or both, he certainly wasn't opposed to both.

"Then you can get us what we want," he deadpanned.

"I c-could, probably," the teller admitted, watching the dark form of Yamato's _saya_ rest securely in Vergil's grasp. "But that's _Sparda's_ box! My superiors will surely notice!"

Vergil's eyes seized with fiery blue light, heightened by the noon sun above them. Nero's own shock froze him so solidly, he honestly feared for the teller's life. "If there's actual possessions of my father here, they are mine and you will deliver them to me at once!"

The teller's eyes went as wide as their thin-rimmed glasses. "T-then you must be Sparda's kin?"

"That I am. So whatever you have is _clearly_ and _legally_ mine."

“I know there was a trust fund, but the investigation never found any evidence that anyone survived, s-so—“ the orderly stammered. 

"We have a trust fund?" Nero gaped between the teller and his father, neither of which were in any position to pay him attention.

"It—"

The tip of Yamato's blade surged short of the teller's chin, a glint of sunlight forcing them to blink repeatedly. "It's not yours. It is ours. Return it, and I might decide to let you live."

Nero hastily shoved the blade away, completely ignoring the cut he earned for the effort. It would be gone in seconds, anyway. "Hey, hey! We are _not_ killing a bank teller!"

"They're withholding that which belonged to my father and is now mine, Nero. I will not allow anyone, demon or human, to insult the family name as such." Vergil looked right into his son, and suddenly they were at the top of the Qliphoth again, staring down for the first time. "And neither should you."

But just like then, Nero won't allow himself to be held back by memory alone. “Yeah, clearly you never learned how to share, _dad_ , but we are not murdering people over money!"

Vergil freezes. Yamato is still raised in the air, halfway between the teller's trembling frame and Vergil's cracked face. _Dad_ , Nero had said, and all Vergil's limbs had become leaden with a weight he couldn't name. Steely grey eyes locked on his son, his son who was all but ordering him to let this scum live.

Nero tests the waters first, keeping his hands raised as he steps in front of the cowering teller and gently pushes Yamato all the way back to his father's side. Vergil's slackened grip didn't resist. His son seemed just as shocked for a second; those clear blue eyes widen before they blink and relax into a sigh.

"Good." 

The teller, however, isn't as convinced. "Please," they plead, "I'll—I'll show you what I can from the account, just d-don't hurt me!"

Nero nodded and let the guy have their space.

Vergil finally managed to wrestle enough control of his racing pulse to sheath Yamato and mask his clammy face with a fierce glare. "Then make haste," he ordered.

The teller didn't need to be told twice. 

* * *

**07 December 12:05 PM | Sparda Express**

Being led through a fancy bank is certainly new for Nero. Fortuna had tons of buildings just as nice and three times as old, but none of them operated like high-end offices, if they weren't being used for nefarious world-ending schemes or twisted science. Hell, Fortuna's nicest, oldest building was just a glorified museum to Sparda, only opened to the public on incredibly holy occasions. But a place like this? With marble floors and carved ceilings accented by chandeliers worth more than he'd ever see in his life? That was all big city posh.

He's mostly surprised. A lot of the biggest pockets still hadn't come back to the city, even with their endless means. They were too damn impatient for one reason alone: why wait years to rebuild in a now-cursed city when you had the money to buy a new place somewhere else? That a place like this could even be in such good shape so soon must have meant they were barely been hit by the Qliphoth, if at all. _What kinda luck_ , Nero thinks.

In a big office down a long dark hallway, they sit while the teller nervously tackles a giant filing cabinet. They make a series of clicking noises that send Vergil into a very unsubtle tapping on Yamato's _saya_ , shutting the poor soul up. Nero wants to reassure them, but he's still hesitant to trust anyone in an institution that bears his family name. Only one thing remains for sure: his father's intimidation tactics are bar none. Vergil would be a helluva force toward the upturned noses back home, he thinks, traitorous as the thought feels as soon as it leaves his mind. For one, he probably would refuse to ever step foot back there, and two, he'd probably scare everyone so much that their social standing would take an even bigger hit, if that was at all possible.

He doesn't _care_ , Nero has to remind himself, even as his eyes focus on the stack of papers the teller sifts through in front of them, hoping to glance a name or number that would mean something to this stupid, storied family of his.

The teller glances between folders and files with a shocking speed, but still manages to hum in between each one. "Your father had a very diverse portfolio, if I do say so myself."

"You may not," Vergil sniped.

"Hey," Nero warned, an aura of power over his voice. 

His father relented, but kept staring daggers at the teller. Nero nodded and they went on.

"Well, considering the date of the account opening and the amount of land offerings he purchased initially..." the stocky character adjusted their glasses and blinked an absurd amount of times for a human. "It looks as though your family owned at least half of Red Grave at one point!"

"Seriously?" Nero gasped less at the teller and more at his father, who was consumed by contemplation. Vergil didn't seem surprised at all, but he certainly had to be, considering? Nero wasn't totally sure. His father's faces had only begun to make sense to him.

"He was a man of immense power, and with power comes resources, intelligence, strategy...." Vergil went on, hoping he didn't have to explain the intricacies of a two-thousand-year-old lifespan to his three-quarters-human son. 

"Some holdings were sold off to the earliest settlers of the city—there's our first mayor," the teller pointed at an illegible signature on a yellowed document. "And others seem to be designated as available for auction, which most were."

"That is besides the point," Vergil scowled with a glare that threatened to pin the teller to the wall without even summoning a sword. "Find out what we are entitled to. _Now_."

The teller startled and hid behind the growing stack of files and papers, shaking all the while.

Nero sighed and settled back into his chair. They could be here a while, and his father certainly didn't seem interested in making small talk. Hell, he seemed more interested in taking turns glaring at the poor employee and his own son than he did anything else.

In the midst of his own boredom, Nero purposely waited until he caught his father's eyes again to lift his foot and set it on the arm of the chair.

Vergil rolled his eyes and returned to silently threatening the teller.

Victory was short-lived and soured in Nero's face as his instincts roared at him from behind. He and his father turned at the same time to find they were no longer alone: a man with greasy hair and an outrageously pinstriped suit sauntered in, the glare from his shiny cuff links and designer sunglasses combining to nearly blind them in the harsh sunlight. 

"Would you excuse us?" the man asked, grasping the teller's shoulder a bit too hard.

"B-but sir, I believe this account—"

"Requires some special attention, yes. And you've done well, but I'll take it from here," the new banker shooed the poor orderly away, where the doors were slammed shut by a pair of burly-looking guards. 

Vergil's hand immediately stretched to rest on Yamato's pommel, and in the corner of his eye he could see Nero take Blue Rose into his grasp. There was obvious demonic energy afoot—small, but near. If it wasn't the suited man himself, it was the guards, or some other third party waiting in the wings. Father and son shared but one glance in order to silently agree on one thing: they were not keen to wait for the ambush.

But the man wasted no time. 

"I hope we don't have to resort to violence so soon, boys?" he said with the garish voice of a seasoned salesman. "I know swordsmanship is a tradition in your family, but its a bit outlandish in this day and age, don't you think? Now that revolver, that's much more suited to the times, huh?" he pointed at Blue Rose with a wide smile, but that didn't entice Nero to show it off. The young devil hunter just held it closer to his chest—readily aimed, but not quite cocked—and relaxed just enough to let the guy think he was flattering him.

The banker would not be so easily discouraged. "I take it that's the legendary Yamato?" he asked with a glint in his eye.

Vergil's glare heated. His grasp on the _saya_ was seconds away from growing claws, and for once, Nero wasn't keen to stop him.

"It's mine," Vergil finally growled. "And you have much more that belongs to me as well."

"So you're either Vergil or Dante, then? Your father said he had twins but _by god_ , you could be his clone!"

"Vergil."

"...You seem a bit young to be Dante," the man murmurs as his eyes slide over to Nero, studying him far too closely for comfort. "Unless there was a third son nobody mentioned?"

"He is _my_ son," Vergil corrects.

Nero whirled on him, wide blue eyes catching his surely grey ones, but they looked past him. Vergil was seconds away from killing this guy on the spot if he didn't do what they wanted and Nero was included in that. 

The banker, sensing the tension, just nods and goes on. "Well, well, the family name lives on! You know, Sparda didn't make any specific stipulations for grandchildren, but I always wondered if that was because he never expected any, or if he just planned on having more kids every few centuries."

"He's dead," Vergil bit out. "My son, my brother, and I are his only remaining relatives, and thus, we demand our inheritance. _Now_."

"I see. Straight to the point. More so than your father, I can say for sure."

"You knew Sparda?" Nero is a little aghast, mostly because he's used to outlandish priests lying about having visions of Sparda telling them to commit crimes in his name.

"Yes!" the man perked up, all smiles and sleek suit motioning around the room. "Believe it or not, he actually did help create this place."

"So Sparda Express really is telling the truth?" Nero could hardly believe it himself, but his father just looked between them with a mix of skepticism and confusion. 

"It's not just good marketing," the banker chuckled. He turned to face the bright light in the window, the glare of the sunset catching all his jewelry and near-blinding them again. 

Nero looked away just to save his eyes, though Vergil seemed to defiantly glare at the sun for hindering his sight.

"He was a smart man and a cunning demon. Neither one of those can live amongst humans for a couple millennia without keeping his affairs in order, now can he?"

Neither father nor son answered. 

"And what better way to keep resources hidden in centuries-old institutions than a bank?" the banker turned right as the light flashed and the change became instantly apparent. Past the jewelry was now scaled arms peeking out of his sleeves, clawed hands, and slit eyes behind sleek shades that still sparked mischievously. 

Nero scowled. "You're a demon!" His grasp on Blue Rose tightened, but he made no immediate move with it.

Vergil was already out of his seat, Yamato's _saya_ firmly in one hand while the other rested just above, ready to grasp the pommel and release his most lethal strike. He stood still if only the give the man a single chance to do anything. But only the one.

"That I am," he confirmed. "I'm not the first one he entrusted your family's account to, but I hope to stick around for awhile longer if you'll allow me," he eyes Yamato and Blue Rose wearily, but not with fear. This certainly could not have been his first encounter with a Sparda if he managed to stay so calm at sight of the most powerful devil arm this side of the underworld, wielded by its current king. At least, that was what Nero figured. His father seemed to have much more violent, less understanding plans.

"So you're like... a demonic businessman? For real?" Nero could hear his father sigh but had no want to see his disappointed features for the millionth time. This place was wild as hell, and he wanted to figure it out before something inevitably ruined it's coolness factor.

"Just one of a few that I know of. I am the highest ranking here at the Express, at least, and we employ a few to keep things in line."

"And none of that includes intimidating your human competitors, I hope?" That was the one situation where Nero would be happy to let his dad slaughter the place—but only the demons, none of the humans. They had to leave something for the police, after all. 

"No, no, we try to avoid such dealings. It wouldn't live up to Sparda's mission, you see? He fought for mankind's interests, and for that we don't charge interest!" he laughed with a salesman's wink that just looked unseemly with slitted eyes. 

Vergil scoffed. 

Nero had to do everything in his power not to cringe. "And he did all this, just to keep all his money hidden?"

"Mostly. Also to keep tabs on human-demon dealings, because banks just always have their pulse on things, you know? But yes, he had a special account hidden away for his most personal use, including... his children."

Vergil finally perked up and returned Yamato to a one-handed grip, though he moved no closer to the man rifling through the files.

Nero let himself peek over papers that looked at least as old as those shown off by the Order. Some of their earliest edicts, alongside those relics said to have been written by Sparda himself, filled the collection in Fortuna Castle, no matter how redundant they were. He always liked the order form for bread when he was little, because what was cooler than knowing Sparda liked sourdough enough to order it daily? Nero liked sourdough, too! It was neat, it was silly, and the nuns always scolded him for belittling Sparda's legacy so. He didn't care, because for all their preaching and rules, they couldn't change that one, undisputed fact about their so-called god, no matter how much they disliked it.

The banker plucked a newer-looking set that at least had typeface Nero could recognize on it, so it couldn't have been more than a few centuries old. He held it aloft with all the grace of a priceless object.

"This is his will, 'to be enforced at my departure from the human world and/or my children's legal maturity.'"

Vergil snatched it out of the man's hand, his features sharp as a summoned sword but pale as a ghost's. Cold eyes scanned it once, twice, a dozen times. 

"This was his," he confirmed, a hollowness in his usually nasal voice. "He had quite a sum he planned to leave us, or is that gone, too?"

The man buckled under Vergil's heated gaze and checked the rest of the folder. "It looks like there was some property, a joint account, and some...stipulations.

He held up a stack of papers to study closely. "It seems like this would've been good for some land in Red Grave—if it were still available land. I don't know about you boys, but half a city in shambles isn't exactly what we would call _available_."

"It's getting there," Nero added, though he scratched his head sheepishly as both men zeroed in on him with narrowed eyes and wrinkled brows. "But the city's been through enough, and I won't take what someone else has put to good use."

Vergil snorted in that way that either found something amusing or foolish. Nero hadn't quite been able to tell between the two yet. But he could only screw his eyes shut and breath out.

"Just give us access to the account and we'll be on our way."

"Are you sure? You'd need an executor to enforce the will, and that's not just on the money, you know? Our company has an storied history with your family, and it'd be a shame to just let it—"

Yamato appeared less than an inch away from the banker's throat. "I said give me my inheritance and that will be _all,_ " Vergil commanded. 

Nero noted with his own wide eyes that his father's grip on the sword was trembling, just slightly. Missable by a panicking human eye like the teller's or a lesser demon like the banker, but easily spotted to eyes that had seen him draw it a dozen times—always firmly, always precise. 

The banker's arms flew up and pushed the files across the desk. "Yes, Mr. Sparda."

The chill that went down Nero's spine was not friendly, nor welcome, nor as empowering as it should have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: takes a silly easter egg and turns it into lore  
> also me: which is more believable, that sparda had money or that the boys could have money????
> 
> reader, when i tell you i had more trouble with the latter, boy did i. i just thought sparda express was neat and wanted a silly excuse for 1) nero learning more about the family history 2) vergil getting defensive about his dad and 3) father-son angst/bonding and this scene worked really well for all of it! so that was the goal more so than giving them money, which will not change their circumstances by much tbh bc i know it would be too ooc and weird for this grungy little world that they occupy anyway lol. did i overthink this massively? yes. was it totally worth it? yesss


	9. interlude ii - Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady and Trish venture on a sleepy job, leaving them to make their own fun--and trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about ghosting last week :( it wasn't a great week in general for me at all, sadly, but I have acnh to cope now and I found the time to add 2k more to this! so its better than it would have been if I had kept to my schedule! procrastination is good sometimes!!

**07 December 12:25 PM | Upper Capulet Heights**

The suburbs don't offer much in the way of anything, Lady knows all too well. The streets are narrow and smooth, the houses too big and imposing, the landscaping perfectly manicured. It makes her sick. What is all that show protecting? There's nothing but ghosts inside; of expectations, achievements, and would-be families. 

_Many people value perfection too much_ , her mother had said. _They feel the need to covet it._

Lady, neé Mary, just laughed and asked _why_.

_Because they have't met you_ , she'd smile and tackle her daughter with tickles, not caring how the floor mussed her clothes or dirtied her skin. Their family history had afforded them a comfortable life, sure, but it was Kalina Ann who had made it perfect. Not _that_ bastard, nor the nameless priestess that had wrought all this upon them eons ago, nor the forgotten relative who had secured their excessive means generations before.

The manor was the first thing Lady sold. Her father's belongings, she burned in the courtyard and left for the realtor to deal with. If they wanted a bigger commission, they could make the house look good on their own—she had stopped caring long before. As far as she was concerned, it was everyone else's problem now. All her problems began and ended with Kalina Ann's body lying in a pentagram in the library, and was given new life by the gun bearing her name being passed to a demon boy she'd just met.

What would her younger self have done, if she could see how lazy and gruff Dante would become with age? She certainly wouldn’t have guessed that from the rambunctious teen who whooped and hollered every chance he got, careless of man or demon. Before the Qliphoth, he seemed to recede from both, and she had no need to barter with him over games of pool or darts as often as they used to. Perhaps now that he owed her again, they were due. She knows better than most that sometimes the silence is the best you can ask for. Though she doesn't mind if she has to yell at it first. 

Perhaps it was easier for her, being an only child. She'd always had to accept the silence of that huge, empty house. Dante had the privilege of hearing a different voice echo back instead of a hollow repeat of his own. At least, she assumed so. They'd never exactly _discussed_ their childhoods without a few six-packs drained between them.

Lady had talked to toys and books, back then. They were all she had, besides her mother and the phantom of the man she believed her father to be. Now, she spoke to her guns and they roared back with fire and ash.

Sometimes, her brain takes off like her motorcycle and decides that worst come to worst, she would have been normal. If she’d left for school at all, she would have come right back, maybe even— _ugh_ —with a spouse and kids in tow, ready to repeat the cycle of this vapid hill without even knowing. And that was what they would have wanted for her! Her mother wouldn't have wanted her to be alone, her father would have wanted their _storied_ bloodline to carry on, and she would have been a princess trapped in another tower, miles worse than the one from hell. 

Instinctively, her fist curls around the paper in her pocket and the crunch stomps on her thoughts like the steel toes of her boots. As much as she’d love to stomp the thing, along with every over-the-top mailbox and luxury car she passed, they need it. It’s taken over an hour of winding through this overpriced labyrinth just to get this far, and she won’t doom them both to more wasted time here, sour memories be damned. 

Lady only needs a glance to match the scribbled address with the wrought iron lettering perfectly centered on the side of a stony place ahead of them. She pulls over and Trish wordlessly follows. 

The rest of Morrison's note has tasked them with picking up and delivering a priceless artifact that is "hot," meaning: "stolen," and probably "demonic." Her father had run in similar circles before everything had gone to hell and hell opened itself up to her. But instead of running away, she’d jumped in headfirst and had yet to look back.

Yet here that old world was, running right back in front of her. Funny how shit worked out that way.

A pointed rev kicks up dust and a question at her side in the form of piercing green eyes peeking out under a black helmet. Lady just nods as her partner settles, shaking a waterfall of locks free from their confines. That’s Trish, Trish is more than enough, and Trish understands. 

The demon in question just stands there, scrutinizing the façade of the mansion—all cocked hips and crossed arms, vile winkles in her brows and lips. An oblivious soul could say it was a shame to see a frown on such a beautiful face, and those souls would earn a shock for their gall. But to Lady, that face was a godsend, because not only was it still beautiful in rage and disgust and the like, but it rang true with her own opinions, and that was just one part of the puzzle that made them work so well together.

Lady finally pulls herself from the motorcycle and points with a rude finger. “This is the place.”

“Ugh,” Trish gagged, “could they have worse taste?”

"Don’t give 'em any ideas,” Lady smirked. She had certainly seen far worse, in the less classy places of the world. Red Grave was among peak prissy; her former home had been a bit more modern-leaning, but the trashier ones were all splash and no substance. At least this one seemed to have something coherent to its Victorian stone and tall windows, though it was done no favors by the excessive iron accents that framed its features. 

Trish slammed the door handle with enough strength to give the huge double doors a good wobble, though Lady knew she could shatter them if she _really_ wanted to. And they would have to be ready to, as far as their recent experience was going. 

Within seconds a demure-looking butler cracks the doors open and eyes them both with a Look. Lady knows it unfortunately well. That thin-eyed stare that wasn't vile enough to be a glare, nor long enough to be rude. Oh no, no, no, _never_ did they want to be seen as _rude_ —quite the opposite, actually. What they were actually performing was a scan—of appearance, composure, status—the works! All of it designed to decide what welcome they would receive, depending on how close to being "one of them" they were deemed. It was a look Lady hated almost as much as the last one on her father's face.

"Ah, you must be here for the pickup," he tutted with a decidedly lower tone of voice. 

Oh, he'd definitely assigned them to either “ruffians” or "the help." Good, that’s where she felt more comfortable, anyway. The butler held the door open for them as they sauntered inside, but Lady made a point to meet him with a thousand-yard stare until he forced himself to look away.

Trish's eyes wandered the grand foyer to all corners of the circular room, polished marble columns and long curtains framing the space like a theater inviting patrons in. Yup, some ostentatious jerks definitely owned this place. Morrison hadn't given them any names, but the client had made clear that they would simply serve as delivery girls for a day. Lady would have preferred a job with some action, but seeing Nero and Dante’s bet play out had been somewhat worth the show. Getting to spend any amount of time alone with Trish was another added bonus, one that had afforded them a quiet morning with a relaxing drive through the hills overlooking the city. At least, it had been relaxing until they'd had to threaten a sorry series of security guards employed by whatever passed for "community" up here.

The butler continued herding them down a long hallway just as needlessly decorated as every other inch of the place. Their boots squeaked loudly on the overly-polished floors, which reflected Lady's sneering face almost perfectly. Her frown melted away when Trish made a point to scuff her feet like a heavy-heeled tap dancer, however, and they found themselves muffling childish laughter in tune. 

A pointed cough brought them both back to attention outside another set of grand wooden doors, guarded by the spindly butler.

The ladies met him like a pair of scolded schoolchildren, but neither apologized. If this job was going to be boring as all hell, they would make their own fun, and the client could deal with it themselves if they were going to be picky.

With a sigh the butler turned and pushed the doors open, revealing a room not unlike one that had once been within the home of a girl named Mary.

Clearly designed with a library in mind, the high shelves and even-higher ceilings beheld enough skeletons and trinkets to fill a museum, and it didn't escape Lady's mind that most of them had probably been pilfered from one. This homeowner certainly had the big bucks to outbid one, and that was if the poor institutions had ever been in the picture. But the butler saunters past all of it, not bothering to belittle them with the courtesy of bragging about his employer's collection. Instead, his b-line leads to a pedestal in the center, beholden to something that looks too ordinary for the space.

"The Wheel of Destiny," he announces with a flurry of gloved hands. "Storied for its mysterious discovery and symmetrical design. Its lauded by museums and art aficionados alike for its symbolism and intricate designs that no archaeologists have been able to accurately decipher."

And yet, two pairs of scrunched eyebrows and down-turned lips met eyes as they shared the same thought:

“Its just a stinkin' wheel,” Lady sneers. 

“Who would pay big bucks for this?” Trish gapes. 

The butler frowns. But in the space of another moment he sighs, gathers his shoulders together, and returns to a somber picture of manners. "Nevertheless," he tuts in that drone-y voice, "your client has purchased it and demanded its safe delivery to Red Grave City."

"Yup," Lady nods and grabs the artifact right off its perch.

The butler gasps and hovers behind her, his fingers frozen in mid-air. "Wouldn't you prefer it in a case?" his beady little eyes darted between Lady's loose grasp and the priceless wheel. "My employer has one—"

"Nope," Trish stopped him and winked in that heart-stopping way she did when she was in a good mood. "It'll be fine with us."

"If-if you're sure," he stammered, at a loss for words and empty, gloved hands.

Lady saluted and all but sprinted out the room. "Thanks! We'll take it from here!"

"Bye-bye," Trish crooned and turned the corner with her, giggling all along the way back to their motorcycles.

Lady has to catch herself on a fancy iron lamppost in the front yard, her other arm curling around her aching gut. “Did you see his face?” 

Trish giggles in her quieter, demur rumble that Lady knows well. She was laughing just as hard on the inside, but those demonic lungs weren’t quite built for comedy. It never undercut her joy, however, and the walking arsenal often found herself laughing harder in response to the smallest of her partner's ticks.

All the giggling between them simmered low when it became clear the wheel would not fit in either of their bike compartments, but it bubbled back up as Lady pulled out a rope and haphazardly tied the thing down. What the client didn't know about how they handled their cargo wouldn't hurt them, right? It wasn't like they were getting paid extra for careful handling, anyway. That was the butler's job.

Lady tugs on the rope to make sure it can survive the trip. It didn't budge, though her bike was now home to a thing the size of a stop sign, and it would surely slow her velocity down on the best part of cruising down these winding hill roads. Neither of them had stopped to really consider it in the mansion, but now it shone with a weak brightness reflecting off its dirty white surface and blue runes. It seemed just like every other meaningless artifact that these elite types decorated their castles with, demon or human alike. But that line of thinking had been exactly what had lulled Mary into the comfort of her old life, and Lady would not make the same mistake ever again.

In the throes of quiet consideration, Trish leaned over from the seat of her own bike, eyes narrow but patient.

"Is this another Mundus reject?" Lady wondered.

"No," Trish murmured, holding her chin in her hand, though her eyes never left the wheel. "It was just another fancy puzzle piece."

Lady snorted and swung her leg over the seat, earning a saucy rev from her partner. She rolled her eyes despite the smirk that bloomed widely enough to pull at the chin strap of her helmet. Trish pulled her own on, despite how little she needed such protection, tucking her wild bangs away from her eyes. Sure it was an ugly, uncomfortable accessory, but the two-way radio Nico had provided within them was the best way to pass time on the long road that awaited them.

One last glance in her rear view mirror graces her face with another reminder of her old life and a frown. Leaving a place like this in the dust again would feel great, as the wind tugs at her hair, and her engine roars as loud as she wants without recourse. But the mirror, like any other, is resolute in its denial of her wishes. The corner of her red eye catches it: The whip of a vine shape where there was no vine-covered wall. Behind it, the perfect tiling on a roof shuttered slightly with the wind. Easy camouflage to the average human eye, of course, but neither of them are as human as they appear.

Trish's head darted around towards the same places, a low layer of static beginning to glint off her fingers and the chrome of her bike.

Thank god, Lady almost blurts, her fingers curling into the handles as she revved hard. Some action would be exactly what she needed to pull her head out of the past. It had been awhile since she had a good chase, too.

“So,” she starts, meeting Trish's eyes in the way only she knew how to, "we aren't going to hand this over, are we?”

"Absolutely not."

Lady smirked. “Just what I thought you'd say.”

* * *

**07 December 1:14 PM | Lower Capulet Heights**

It only takes a few streets before Lady realizes exactly what game they're playing: _pinball_.

Like the balls that were shot into play, they'd begun at the top of the hill, launching themselves into the twisted lanes of the immaculate suburb, gracefully driving down long inclines that would make any motorhead jealous. Lady certainly didn't have time to stop and count, but there only seemed to be a few riots after them, leaping from roof to roof, occasionally rolling in the road to gain speed. The amount of property damage they were doing had to be as high as the stylishly-tiled roofs themselves, but it only brought a smirk to Lady's thin lips.

It was like racking up points: how many houses were hit? The demons that got caught in dense twists of vines or tree branches had to be worth a bonus. And the number that they lost just by swerving into a tight turn just kept the combos running, the more of them they could sting together.

Bouts of hollering and laughter echoed between their radios whenever Trish juked a demon into a fence or Lady baited one into jumping right off the cliff side. A part of her was screaming out at the agony that they couldn't—rather, _shouldn't_ —use any of their guns on 'em, but that just meant they'd have to be creative. And while Lady's mental tally wasn't totally focused, but she was pretty sure Trish took the jackpot when she managed to pop a wheelie just as a riot leapt at her, and then slammed her front tire on its head like a grape. The mess of it splattered beneath both their motorcycles as they flew past, grime and gore spraying all over the nearest yard. Oh, the HOA was gonna have a helluva time explaining that to their residents.

She and Trish could only control so much of themselves, after all.

Whether it was through their styling or the thrill of the chase, the bottom of the hill approached much faster on the way down than it did up. By her own count, Lady could estimate that they'd taken out a least a dozen demons between the both of them, and that was just the ones they could see. With the grid streets of the main city coming up ahead of them, she could afford a longer glance at her rear view mirror, both of her mismatched eyes scouring the blocks for any more stragglers.

"That it?" Lady hummed through the radio. She leaned back in her seat for a moment, letting her bike settle into a cruise down the last dregs of hill. What she was really looking for was Trish's own demonic instincts—the most valuable assurance she knew besides the barrel of her own gun.

Trish met her gaze for a long second, her eyes going from amused to startled. Her entire torso twisted towards the front of them as she veered her bike into Lady's path. 

Where they had been slowing down just moments ago, a pair of hellbats dive-bombed with a pair of ear-piercing shrieks.

Lady's momentum should have sent her veering off her own bike—had Trish not reached out and pulled her handlebars upright at the last second. Both of them held on to each other's bikes as they jumped a curb and wobbled dangerously into the next street. Only their feet jutting out to drag stopped them for sliding much further.

Trish cursed and looked all around them—in too many directions for Lady's liking. If she could sense more of these flying fucks from that many angles, then all the pinball maneuvers in the world wouldn't help them.

"Go!" Trish gave a Lady a good push in the back. It sprang her motorcycle to the front with a quick series of revs beneath her, Trish and a quickly-growing pack of hellbats behind her.

The heat from their fireball spit sent a quick bloom of sweat down her back. If this got much worse, she could risk sliding off her own bike, if she didn't get set on fire first. 

Lady twirled her finger along the radio of her helmet idly, but not without urgency. A few ticks up and she would call the office, reaching a surely-slumbering Dante _if_ he was even there at all. A tick to the middle and she would reach Morrison, wherever and whatever he was up to, and likely get a subdued response alongside a bill itemized with her shame. But her last tick on the dial, tuned all the way down to the bottom, so that even in her most dire state, she would be able to slam it down without doubt. This situation isn't that dire, she knows, even as Trish turns a sedan into a ramp and jumps her bike over a planter. 

The resulting SCREECH of tires and inferno of what used to be a car gets lost in the wind and blasts of exhaust from their bikes. And that's exactly what's wrong—the city's being torn apart. Mostly by the demons, Lady reminds herself, but its not like she wants to see another place be reduced to rubble. Fortuna and Red Grave certainly didn't deserve to be so condemned, yet they'd been completely powerless to stop it. 

But its moreso her hatred of dragging things out so long, she thinks as she swerves to dodge another fireball. One can't exactly take the time to aim and fire without turning into road burn. And she'll be damned before she blind fires into the middle of a populated city, at least. 

Scratches of static barely register in her ears over the roar of demons and road alike. For a moment, she thinks, _what if no one picks up?_ Will she and Trish just have to bite the bullets and stop to fight them, or just keep going until they could pick them all off?

A twang-y, upbeat "Hello?" saves her from those thoughts.

"Nico," Lady barks over the inferno, "we're bringin' a parade back with us."

"Shit, really?" the mechanic gasped.

"They've really got a taste for whatever we grabbed," she snuck a glance behind her, at the damned wheel that put them in this mess, "and they're awfully persistent."

"You want the whole cavalry?"

"Doesn't matter, just make sure _someone_ meets us at the finish line."

Nico snorted in that overly-nasally way that sent her accent into overdrive. "I better get dibs!"

"You better be first, then!" she ended the call with a firm twist of the dial. there was no time to negotiate, dawdle, or drab. She'd let Nico have first crack at whatever demon goo was left of these things, if there was any to be found. But that all depended on exactly what the artisan of arms did next.

* * *

**07 December 1:42 PM | Downtown Capulet**

For the first time she'll admit, Lady actually misses the mansions. Their smooth, winding streets in the hills had been a helluva boon when this chase had started, and she would have been lying if she didn't admit to having fun. The wind in her hair, her cycle roaring beneath her, Trish at her side and some demons behind them? What could go wrong?

In the last half hour, a whole lot.

Anytime they even slowed under 30 miles an hour, the demons chased closer, and they definitely couldn't afford to stop. Not while they still had cargo with them. 

The both of them are absolutely glad they'd taken the artisan up on her offer to connect their helmet radios to the van's—it brought a world of convenience to making arrangements between both of their businesses, and kept the old office nice and quiet exactly when they wanted. Dante had been far too fond of just leaving the damn doors unlocked all the time—it was no wonder no one with a brain cell would insure the place anymore, and rent was sky high just to cover the debt from two _unfortunate_ renovations.

She already owes those kids another one, Lady realizes with a little start. Were they going to wind up being the opposite of her and Dante, then? It boggles her so much she almost swerves through a corner. 

The bumpy, neglected streets of his side of the city wreak havoc on her tires, and she has to curl up higher in her seat just to anticipate the jostling her arms and thighs have to take. It became a struggle just to keep her small frame attached to the bike, and she's certainly endured some bad falls in her time. Just how many more she can—she'd rather not find out.

That's probably why Trish is riding right beside her, her arm occasionally reaching out and holding her seat steady as they take a tight turn together, the street barely allowing enough space for both their motorcycles to pass. But none of it discouraged the furies and hellbats, who alternated between warping and sprinting besides them. 

Any other time she would love to keep racing them like this, swerving in between demons like traffic cones and popping wheelies over the brave few who dare to leap in her path. but the wheel that burns a hole on the back of her seat is worth something, and she’ll die before she lets them have it.

"On your left," Trish murmurs in the way only she can.

Together they turned, but more bumps threw Lady asunder. she doubled back on the handlebars, but lost her center of gravity. her tires screeched out as she pulled the tires the wrong way for a frightening second and quickly readjusted. Her legs clung on to whatever crevice she could find without looking; if there was ever a time to not tak her eyes off the road, it was now.

A familiar tickle pulled at the hair stuck to her neck with sweat, but she needed only a glance to confirm what she suspected: Trish, her fingers and handlebars alight with lightning, ready to fire at the next demon with the gall to get near.

They didn't wait long, as a hellbat dove right into their path, only to explode in a ball of fire and light. 

Smirking, Lady revs at every blast Trish lands, adding a holler for the sparks that rain down like fireworks in their path. She takes to the pattern of zooming ahead, baiting the demons into diving, and watching through her rear view as Trish zaps them out of existence.

Its all fun and games, until one in front of Lady explodes in a blast of _blue_. There's a CRACK in how quick she turns her neck, but the pain is easy to ignore in the wake of relief that follows:

Nero slides from around the corner on a Punchline, slowly but with power focused within the devil breaker and his free arm. Lady squinted closer and saw Blue Rose literally overflowing with a blue glow that gleamed as brightly and frighteningly as Trish's electricity.

"Duck!" he called.

Lady didn't doubt him for a second.

Both ladies hard-turned their motorcycles into slides, breaking off into opposite directions on the road. Lady grit her teeth at the road burn beginning to set her bike alight in shades of orange and yellow, curling her small frame into a ball atop the seat, and springing off with every ounce of strength she had left. The launch gets her just high enough to catch the pole of a streetlight, her short legs curling up to cling to the light as it turns red. 

A fireball drags her attention back behind her, where Nero gets up from a pile of flattened Hellbats and Furies. He shakes the remnants of a Devil Breaker from his wire cuff and swats soot off his jacket.

On the other side, an annoyed huff brings a more alarmed look to Lady's face. But she only finds her partner, grimacing at another fireball in form of mangled metal and sizzling static. 

"There goes another good bike," Trish lamented. Every part of her usually flawless figure was a mess—from her disheveled hair, to soot-covered skin, and frayed ends of her boots and pants. In much too many ways to name, Trish _smoldered_ , and if Lady wasn't still so concerned, she'd laugh.

It brought enough levity to the walking arsenal for her to let go of her savior streetlight and land firmly. "You slid the whole way, huh?" she followed their twin skid marks in the road from their split, where Lady's had kept going and fallen in a heap a block further. It looked salvageable, from afar, but Trish's...

"I'm fine," the demoness confirmed with a nonchalant shrug. 

That was all Lady needed to hear. She doesn't miss how her partner eyes her own mild burns and bruises with some concern, but a firm glance between them settles the air even as it burns with gas-fueled smoke and demon ashes.

In the center of what had been a perfectly functioning intersection, sirens began to echo in the distance and all of them met in the middle.

Nico sprinted in from a side street, pointing and gawking at the flaming finish line while Dante sauntered behind her. Or rather, yawned and stretched.

Opposite them, a shadow of an alley grew taller until it revealed Vergil, sheathing Yamato as its blue flames simmered down. He scanned them all critically, like always, but made no move or sound even as he settled on the outskirts of their makeshift circle.

Nero's stump began the process of replacing itself with a new human arm, the blue glow ensconcing his limb in a gentle display. It had unnerved Lady the first time she witnessed it, months ago, but now they all barely paid it attention. Nico's breakers were more impressive, anyway. But what she does not miss, from the corner of her blue eye, is how Vergil's sight is glued to his son's arm—the very one he'd torn off himself. His stony face remains still, nor signals anything else. She doesn't expect anything else from him, and yet, she wonders what he must think.

"Everyone okay?" Nero looked between them all with sincere eyes. His gaze settled between the ladies, the absolute worse for wear, but both of them waved him off. 

"So what was that?" Dante asked.

Lady shrugged. "We made the pick-up easy. Too easy. Caught sight of a few as soon as we left."

"We thought we could lose 'em," Trish continued, "and we did at first, but there was just too many."

"That's why you called Nico," Nero pointed over his shoulder, where the mechanic was gleefully investigating demonic remains in the street.

Trish nodded.

A heavy silence falls among the group, none of them wanting to spell out the obvious. Hunters typically worked alone, anyway. What they had—officially and unofficially—came with no playbook, no contracts, and not nearly enough money to be split five ways. 

If Lady had to call it anything, she could only land on instinct. Like that which drove her to hand the Kalina Ann over, a weariness in her own muscles and mind finally telling her that she would not live to kill another demon in her mother's name if she chased after Arkham into the underworld. But it had also been one good deed in service to another; the first of their very businesses. Dante was then kind enough to leave the final blow to her, and whatever kindness she felt died by her own hand. There was no title for that kind of gesture, and if there was, they'd spent the decades avoiding it at all costs. 

And yet here's Nero, Dante's nephew in blood and practice, tearing those walls down with all four arms if he has to. But he does it with warm eyes and genuine smiles, a concern in his voice for everyone. Well, those who _deserved_ it, by his own admission.

"This is what they were after," Trish called from Lady's bike, the wheel miraculously unharmed in her hands.

A critical look moved through all their faces: Vergil's ever-thin eyes, Nero's scrunched brows, Dante's sideways frown, and Nico's stuck-out lip.

"The guy even admitted its just a trinket," Lady told them, "but I doubt that many demons cared because its _pretty_."

"I don't like it," Nero murmurs, eyes focused away.

"Me neither," Dante added.

Vergil remained silent, scanning between his brother and son. He wasn't fond of being ignorant of his enemy either, no.

"You know what this means, right?" Nero glanced at Nico, who perked up with the question in her eyes.

"We can't go back home this week; I won't risk Kyrie and the kids when we don't even know who or what we're dealing with yet."

"Probaly shouldn't stay here, either," Trish added. "Red Grave's got a lot more space to spare for these kind of shows."

A murmur of agreement passed through the circle, yet five pairs of eyes bounced off each other, the same questions in all of them.

Nico, of course, goes for it. "And that means?"

Nero breathed out heavily. "More supply runs. More mobile jobs."

"More bunking with Dante," Trish chuckled.

"No thanks!" Lady yelped and swept her elbow through Trish's, whooshing the demoness towards the van with an echo of cackling.

Nero sighed and collapsed into a crouch while Nico sneered at him. 

Dante threw up his hands and gave his nephew a long face. "What? What's wrong with my place?"

In the distance, Lady heard Vergil for the first time all day: a single, dry laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Trish literally walks through the fire and flames and just shrugs at everyone lmaoooo]
> 
> fun fact: Lady is indeed a lady of means—her house in the DMC3 manga is opulent af—so much that it's hinted she and Vergil lived there at the same time without realizing it? like arkham just straight-up told verge he could hang out without telling his wife or daughter?? and they just never bumped into each other! obviously this isn't super canon, but I do like the aspect of Lady growing up in that boring rich kid life, which made her dad hiding his evil shit from her and her mom easy, and becoming a devil hunter so exciting afterwards.
> 
> On a slightly more serious note, this fic is officially a year old! Not in terms of me posting it lol, but I started this doc on April 2nd last year and I'm still typing away on it, just about at 80k words with this and the next month of updates finished. But this is just over the halfway mark now! My outline goes to about 18 chapters rn, and I don't think I'll go past it unless something wild happens, but I'll definitely get over 100k with how much this one got away from me :,,,,)
> 
> But as always, thank you for reading/commenting and I hope ya'll are staying safe during these scary times! Tune into [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/auraofdawn) for some good animal crossing distractions if that's your thing lol


	10. to deliver us from our old minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang returns to Red Grave, bringing all their new dynamics and problems along with them for a long, long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've run out of excuses and apologies at this point, so just take 5800 words of fun vignettes with some of that plot I swear I'm not forgetting.

> _Invidious Grave—how dost thou rend in sunder  
> _ _Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one!  
> _ _A tie more stubborn far than nature’s band._

> \- _The Grave_ , Robert Blair, 1743

**08 December 9:37 PM | Red Grave Outskirts**

While the van rumbles along, Trish's eye wanders. A girl can only flip through magazines for so long.

Dante's passed out, a plate of half-eaten pizza somehow balanced on his rising chest, while Nero dozes on the table. The only sound besides the lumbering vehicle comes from Lady riffing off of Nico in the front, their talk of artillery entering its second hour.

Vergil remains in his spot in the back, the spoils of the day's jobs spread out around him. Trish zeroes in on him easily, not because he is the quietest, but because of the faint blue glow that emanates from his corner.

"Had any luck yet?"

Vergil doesn't startle, but turns his head slowly. His fingers dance across the pages of another book, without even needing to look.

"Nothing major," he replies.

Normally that would be enough, but Trish is bored, nothing will stop Nico and Lady's garage talk, and Vergil is the only one lucid enough to speak. If she could get anything out of him, however...

"What about this?" She takes the glowing object before he can stop her, not that he even tries.

Vergil glances up and shakes his head. "Its nothing but a tool. Don't you remember?"

Trish frowns and brings the tiny stones to her eye, their iridescent surface glinting even in the low, warm light of the van. She'd seen enough shiny things in her day, but these had the misfortune of being an ugly kind of shiny. If she were foolish, she'd think them nothing more than earth minerals, but the tiny pull on her instincts knows otherwise.

"Luminite," she breathes.

Vergil rewards her with a single, non-attentive nod.

"So who found this?"

He pointed his chin at Dante, heavy snores blowing pizza crumbs off his chest.

Trish rolled her eyes. "Of course."

"It's moreso... what they were found _with_ ," Vergil held up another palmful of rock, this time red-colored and less shiny. But the stone pulsed with a different kind of brightness—that which pulled at all of her own power.

"I'm not familiar with that one."

"Neither am I," Vergil replied, "but I suspect its some type of minor power source."

Trish couldn't stop the huge snort that escaped her. "I suppose you would know."

Vergil's eyes narrowed, but not quite into a glare. He had yet to completely show her a rude face, and he would be smart not to start.

The van lurched to a halt then, throwing even the dark slayer's pristine visage off slightly. Trish rode the wave of momentum right out of her seat and to the front, where Nico and Lady were already emerging.

"That's it for the night, ya'll," Nico yawned and shuffled past. "Last two out the van get watch!"

And just like that the mechanic was gone, leaving the hunters to decide. Trish took one look at Lady and settled a firm hand on the small of her partner's back.

"I can take watch," she mumbled defiantly.

"You can get a good night's sleep," Trish shot back.

"You too," she plead, even as a stubborn yawn sealed her mismatched eyes shut.

Trish shrugged. With a final push she sent Lady stumbling down the steps of the van, earning a pouty lip for her trouble. All that left just her and the Sons of Sparda, one big kinda-sorta family. Nero jerked awake as the door slammed, eyes wild and forehead covered in sweat. Trish held her arms up, just in case, but the kid settled down quickly. 

"Shit," he mumbled, "we here already?"

Trish nodded and sat across from him.

"You on watch?"

Another nod.

He pointed a thumb at Dante and Vergil, both paying no attention. "What about them?"

Trish doesn't even bother to look. "Probably not."

"Well, well," Nero huffed a tired sigh and rolled out his shoulders. "Looks like its just you and me, then."

He dragged himself up to the coffeemaker, gentle clinks and rustling making a melody of his work. Then he held up two mugs. "How do you like yours?"

A pleased hum escaped Trish before she could think to stop it. How polite of him. "Dark, two sugars."

"A demon with a taste for sugar," Nero mused with half a smirk.

Trish nodded her chin in Dante's slumbering direction. "He's not much different."

Nero winced. "He goes overboard. I like a nice balance."

"Must run in the family, then."

The clinking stopped. "What do you mean?"

"If any one of you are anything like Sparda, then he must've had a helluva sweet tooth himself, don't you think?"

His face screws up in that sour way—rearing up to fight with his words or his sword. She'd almost forgotten how quick he could be to rile up. He'd been so much calmer these past few months. _Youth,_ she chalks it up. 

"I don't," he starts, wincing at the heat of the mugs and thoughts. "I try _not_ tothink about him."

"Why not? Aren't you curious?" she smirks as he hands off her coffee. "There's a lot even the Order never knew."

"What do you know about Sparda?" Nero scoffs, throwing himself back into the couch.

"I know he had courage," Trish murmurs, hands tightening around the warmth of her mug, watching the steam flow upwards into the night, "and a righteous heart."

Nero's eyes go elsewhere, a glaze falling over them that looks years away. "Lotta people do."

"Believe what you want," she tells him, a thrum in her veins that usually stayed silent. "But that's what I know for sure."

Nero's wide eyes just blinked at her for a long moment. Trish left him to wallow in his own thoughts in favor of her magazine. Sure she'd finished it hours ago, and all the others in the pile next to her, but with a fresh cup of coffee and some decent company, well, she just can't let the peace go to waste, now can she?

* * *

**09 December 8:38 AM | Red Grave City**

"Morrison managed to get one rental, but he's still lookin' for another," Nico reported, phone on her ear and cig in her hand.

Lady sighed and paced back to the motorcycle they did have, her trigger finger getting antsy. Sure, it was nothing like the customs they had before it, but it was on short notice and it would do. For now.

But that of course didn't stop Dante from pulling out Cavaliere, its chrome gleaming and its spikes sharp as the Angelo's blade had been before it. He always looked like the happiest damn fool when he showed it off, and Lady honestly couldn't blame him. The motorcycle-slash-chainsaw was the coolest damn devil arm she'd ever seen him wield--and it came with a side of Trish's own lightning. That was the only firepower Lady truly envied, but having it as a partner was a wonderful consolation prize.

Trish saunters over, helmet on her hip, a glare in her eyes. A thrum began to flow through the air, charging it with static.

"Shouldn't that be mine?" she questions him.

Dante's head cocked to the side, pure confusion thinning out his usual grin.

"Hey, now, I know what you're thinkin'--!"

"You wouldn't have it if not for me," Trish blinked and blonde eyelashes glowered straight through him. There it was, that power she held over Dante—even now, in those piercing green eyes, Lady could feel it, too. Whatever she had on him—on Sons of Sparda _especially_ —was a kind of power born, not attained.

She understood why and it still scared the crap outta her, honestly.

In a blink, Trish snatched the bike-slash-chainsaw out of Dante's grasp and spun around on it in another. She revved louder than their old bikes ever could, sparks of demonic energy and light egging her on. Lady took her queue and sprang her own rental to life, bracing and eager to try and keep up with her souped-up partner.

Twin laughter mixed with the roar of engines as the dust left in their wake blinded all.

"What the hell was that?" Nero gaped at his uncle.

Dante, the thinnest ghost of a smirk still somehow plastered to his face, just shrugged and walked away.

* * *

**10 December 2:38 PM | Red Grave City**

Okay, Dante admits, he feels bad for being a bit demanding of Nero. He knew what it was like to have horrible luck, at least.

So while Nero lounges back in the front seat, phone tucked in under his ear, fingers drumming on the dash, bubblegum popping in his teeth... his uncle lingers. 

He never intended to interrupt the kid's daily phone time with his girl, oh _no_. Their business is none of his, and he doesn't care to pry. He pulls the Faust extra low on his brow, though, just so Nero doesn't get mad. 

But even a complete idiot can't miss how much his nephew smiles and laughs nervously— _giggles_ , really, in a way he never did around anyone or anything else—and just _radiates_ happiness. All because of that girl and those rascals they rounded up. He'd have never imagined that more kids would be what calmed the kid down. 

It had been a big thing, back when he first sent the sign. Nero had insisted he didn't have a place to put it—it was too big, too heavy, too expensive (as if he didn't know that)—but they were all just excuses. Handing Yamato over had been the easy part; hearing about every step the kid made in order to build up his side of the business, that had been enough to calm any worry he could have had. Probly too much, if the ladies had an opinion. Yeah, he'd gotten a bit lazier with his side of the work, but was it his fault business slowed down? That he couldn't bring him to go out and steal any few jobs the kid might find for himself? 

The girl, though, she'd sent along a nice thank you note that included a lot more detail than the kid would ever let him live to see. Stuff he hadn't meant to imply, stuff he hadn't thought about. All of it just to say thank you for including him at all. Dante had never been good at coddling people, but Kyrie sure made it seem like he had done plenty, somehow.

Not like he was gonna leave his own nephew completely out at sea! But he really didn't have to know everything, either. As far as he could see it now, the ends justified the means, right? Kid hadn't killed his dad yet, and neither paid enough attention to give him as hard a time as the ladies did, so that spelled out victory in his book.

He's good. The kids are good. 

Nero doesn't narrate exactly what they've been up to, which is good, actually. They didn't know exactly what they were doing as it was—the only thing that made sense was killing every demon that came their way and keepin' em away from the trinkets they'd found. Seemed easy enough, in a city barely re-populated and half-destroyed. They could be as messy and loud as they needed to. Nero called dibs on most of it, but even Dante could see he was just trying to pass the time—he was tired and homesick as hell. The sooner they figured this mess out and cleaned up, the better. 

Unlike him, the kid had a life. One that he liked and deserved and worked for. More than Dante could say for himself, certainly.

But the kid doesn't need to worry about his old uncle. His place is set. Long as he gets a seat in the van and at his desk, back in the office, he can live. And he'll fight like hell to protect those that will. 

* * *

**11 December 3:54 PM | Red Grave Riverfront**

The pile of scraps had only grown in the back of the van, separated only by Vergil's own glaring efforts, a line between his clean little corner and Nico's strewn-about workspace. She didn't care—her work was her work and his was his. They didn't get in each other's way, so she had no care for how he kept the place—long as nothing of her own went missing. Hell, it would make her day to get to tinker with the things he spent all night starin' at, but the man was as firm as his son: no messing around with the artifacts until they were absolutely sure of their capabilities. At least, it seemed like the fancy staff Nero had found was useless, so that was a bust. But the others just waited, right outside her reach...

Dante was the only one willing to let her have her way, when he wasn't busy snoozin' or snarkin.' He made great company, sure, but she had memorized Ebony & Ivory's blueprints ages ago, and seein' them in action is what no piece of paper can ever replace. So of course Nico's rearin' to go when she sees the legendary demon hunter head outside alongside his brother to slice the latest wave of demons down! Who wouldn't? Its a phenomenal deal, if Nico has to say so herself. Guaranteed protection from a fleet of experienced demon hunters, materials provided, and time to work with inspiration right out the window! What she would have given for such a workspace, and they've just handed it to her for free!

So what's Nero thinking when he stops her from rushing outside and watching the Sons of Sparda—THE most power beings on the planet?! It was priceless research! And a decent show! Who knew what flawless designs would come to her mind from just observing minutes of their stylin?

Occasional whoops marked Dante's success, while quiet slices marked Vergil's cold presence. The fact that there were no angry shouts meant they were doing about as well as they ever had, though none of the crowd in the van held their breath.

Nero won't even gift Nico with an answer before the phone rings and his face goes pale—even paler than he did whenever Kyrie was upset. That calmed Nico's annoyance a little, but it did squat to curb her disappointment.

They all stand on call with Morrison, the tiny long-range radio huddled between them in the van.

"Client's calling, kids."

Nero and Nico huffed out exasperated sighs, but even Lady and Trish couldn't find it within themselves to laugh. The only thing that was funny was how he had years on all of them, somehow. Just how many, none of them knew enough about the guy to start counting.

"We've had heat on us all week," Trish asserted.

Morrison scoffed. "You're pros, you should be able to shake it."

"What, you're doubting us, now?" Nero flared his nostrils and more. 

"I'm doubting whether I'm gonna get my money, let alone yours."

Eyes darted between each other, bouncing off the walls of the van. Nico just chewed her lip and blew her bangs out of her eyes. These weren't her calls to make, and she was sure glad they weren't; making calls on how to build her arms was pressure enough. Whatever the hell is going through Nero's scruffy-haired head can't be good for the guy's temper, but she can tell he's holding it together better than usual. Mostly.

"When it's safe enough to make the pass, we'll make it," the young devil hunter asserted. "But for now, we're just taking care of every demon that shows its face."

"Sure a lot more fun than waiting around for some no name to tell us what to do," Lady huffed. 

"Alright, alright," Morrison calmed them, as if he was in the van, his cloud of smoke joining Nico's, his fedora hanging on the rack next to the Faust, a familiar ascot around his neck, and much more. "I'll let you know soon as I know. But you better keep me updated, too." 

Nero nodded at the faces around him, all resolute. "Will do."

Nico had to admit he'd done pretty good, if her opinion was worth anything. But the spell of Nero's confidence shattered like glass as Dante rolled in, blood and guts still fresh on his coat and hair. Behind him, Vergil was as spotless and fresh as a shower.

"Wha'd I miss?"

Nero rolled his eyes and reached for his gum.

* * *

**12 December 11:48 AM | Red Grave Central Library**

Nero has half a mind to make a run through the sewers again—its the quickest way through this part of the city and he certainly remembers it well enough. 

But Vergil would not have it—not now that he had a Qliphoth in him and a devil arm in hand. No, no, _no_ , the king of the underworld could not be caught in such dank refuse, even if it was no better than the wrecked city streets. Nevertheless, Nico is the one that leads the way with the van, powering through sewer and surface alike until she happily delivers a pair of woozy demons to what remained of Red Grave's oldest and largest library. 

What hadn't been blasted by Nero and Artemis was all that was left, Morrison informed them. Information recovery had been low on the locals' list of recovery efforts, and thus what was once a landmark of knowledge and architecture was nothing more than an empty, shaken eggshell of text that would be lost to history.

"Humanity never truly recovered from the burning of Alexandria," Vergil murmured, his fingers already lost to the pages. 

He was only met by a pair of blank faces. 

_Youth at their peak_ , he thought with a grimace. "If the greatest archive of an empire can fall, then no feat of human knowledge is ever truly safe. Even less so for the demonic."

"Ah," Nero gaped and then clamped his mouth shut with a quick palm. 

Nico barked out a laugh, earning an elbow from her partner that sent her back into the safety of the van. "Call me when you dorks are done _reading_!"

Nero scoffed and scowled at the door, though it did him nothing. The principal, Vergil assumed. He and Dante had certainly behaved as such, but as actual children. At least, he thinks, Nero is not one to back down from any challenge, even the smallest. 

Vergil remained wrapped up in the books, his eyes scanning as quickly as he dared. He wants to work fast, to compile a store of any helpful topics and take them along to study more closely later on, when Nero and the others had no use of him. the mobile office had already become cramped in less than a single day, and he had no visions of ever feeling truly comfortable there. Especially while this job ran on who knew how long, he intended to be prepared for long nights and pointed fights. 

He finishes flipping through one, and scans the spines for another, catching Nero staring at him in the corner of his eye.

"Looking for something?"

His son startles, knocking a stack over as he tried and failed to lean casually on a half-broken shelf.

"Uhh, not really."

Vergil raised his chin. "Then why look?"

"Someone's gotta keep an eye on you, remember?"

Vergil huffed. But he kept taking books, glancing through the first few pages, and either putting them back or setting them aside. 

Nero's curiosity refused to leave him easily, however. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"Language."

"What, you tryin' to learn French?"

" _Non_."

Nero blinked.

Vergil sighed. Dante had been spending far too much time around the boy—he'd picked up all his worst habits. They'd have to remedy that, somehow. "There were some papers in my father's file written in demonic language."

"Shouldn't you know some of that?"

"I do," Vergil idled on yellowed pages, studying them closely. "But I believe its coded, for whatever reason, and I don't intend to miss a single thing he might have left for us."

"For... all of us?" Nero ventured, the blues of his eyes impossibly bright. 

Vergil met them for a long minute. And then he looked away, again. "Perhaps. I can't promise it will be anything relevant. It could just be another expired deed."

Nero shrugged. It was... something. Which was a helluva lot better than a broken sword and stolen arm.

Then Vergil turns away once more, another shelf and another book pulling him away. The familiar silence flowed right back in between them, like it always had, and always seemed destined to do when the words died down and there were no swords raised to replace them. Yet, there was another pull, somewhere in between all his usual instincts, that felt compelled to turn back and follow up on burning questions the books could offer no answer to:

“What is that?”

“What is _what_?”

“This,” Vergil pointed at the metal cuff around Nero’s right bicep, “it has no function.”

“Oh, yeah?” Nero's eyes lit up with an evil gleam as he flung the arm out wide, a flash of light blinding his father and leaving a devil breaker in place of his human arm. 

“Curious,” Vergil finally breathed, stepping closer. Gerbera sparked in response and Nero swore he hadn’t done that consciously. “You still utilize your prosthetic.”

“Well, Nico wasn’t ready to stop making arms, and I’m not about to give her another limb to design.” It had been nice to collaborate with her more often; they had plenty of time bounce ideas for new breakers back and forth now that a gigantic demonic tree wasn’t bearing down on them. “Besides, they kick ass.”

Vergil’s face was pure determination as his focus honed in on his son’s otherworldly limb. “How is it that you convert your arm into pure demonic energy and back?”

The young devil hunter shrugged. “Don’t really think about it. It just happens when I want it to.”

Vergil pointed at Gerbera. “And Nicoletta creates these with demonic elements?”

Nero paused for a moment and actually felt the gears in his head turn. They both had brought her demon parts personally, yet neither bothered to think about what possible use she could have found for the goriest slew left on their battlefields. On the surface, none of that gore translated to the sleek design and high functionality of the Devil Breakers. Demons were gross, ugly behemoths; Nico’s weapons were far cries from them, and yet, how her breakers could perform such grand attacks left more questions than answers. 

“She must, if they’re so good for hunting them. But I can’t say I know _how_.”

“Are you certain she’s not a witch?”

Nero’s scoff nearly choked him. His mind conjured the image of Nico’s regular garage outfit, covered in the usual grease and dust but with a pointed hat and broomstick instead of her welding mask and wrench. It broke his serious face and only the sight of his father’s unimpressed glare dragged him back from the brink of tears. 

“N-no! Nico wouldn’t know magic if it hit her in the ass!”

“Then the only explanation must be you and your unique form of power.”

Nero shrugged. He’d figured as much himself. 

Vergil reaches for his forearm and Nero flinches like his life is at stake. And as far as his instincts knew, _it fucking was_. Vergil freezes, hands hovering in mid-air, and Nero stays put feet away. Instinctively he gripped his right arm against his chest, as if willing his heart to stop speeding with the proof of its presence, of its return, resting firmly upon it. 

“S-sorry,” Why was he apologizing? The bastard touched him without saying anything, of course his crazy demon instincts went wild! But this was also the exact same bastard who ripped it off, and his memory was far from forgiving. 

“No, it was my fault,” Vergil actually seems sheepish, if he could even befit the word. “My apologies.”

“It’s just—reflex.” Nero shook the offending limb again and in another flash of light the Devil Breaker returned to its nondescript cuff form, his right arm fully human again. He kept itching at the cuff, secured in place of the old one that had been ripped at the seam when his bringer had been stolen. In the wake of the ensuing chaos, his jacket had been the last thing on anyone’s mind. These days Kyrie kept offering to mend it, but Nero was so busy he kept forgetting to leave it out for her. The ripped edges of the cuff had long since been drenched in blood and dirt, ripped further by the breakers, and threads of fabric constantly fell off. But a part of him couldn’t imagine it being restored to the same condition of its twin on his left, still as perfect and symmetrical as the day Kyrie had presented him with it. 

It had been nice, at the time. That she would push his slow-going confidence in his demonic arm forward with something as small as a jacket. But unlike his old, Order-issued attire, it did not have long sleeves. The design was meant to cuff at his elbows perfectly, leaving all his skin and scales on complete display at all times. Kyrie had decided he was ready for it, and so he was. 

Nero didn't know what he'd do without her. He didn't know _who_ he'd even be without her, and he absolutely didn't want to find out.

If the man turning away from him was any hint, there were worse results.

* * *

**13 December 5:13 AM | Red Grave City**

Perhaps it's just a hunter's curse, Vergil mused. They are so accustomed to the fast and loose world of the chase and kill, that any amount of strategy renders them nigh useless. 

It has been a week. All of them are the least bit tired, let alone aggravated. Nero especially, being so torn away from his home for so long. It does not escape his notice how often his son even yearns in the general direction of the phone. Another testament to his son's steel devotion. But the voice of an angel can only calm impatience so much, and it gets worse with each passing day they're forced to fight the hordes that slip into their path. 

Vergil himself works overtime. No one has asked or told him directly, but his research is of the utmost importance. They don't know how or why the demons keep getting bolder and brasher, but they don't have time to think about it while every scent they miss is another job they get called for anyway. Its unnerving even to Lady and Trish, that Devil May Cry can be so busy after Dante let it fall into oblivion. Yet, there is no demonic behemoth of evil calling them to attention, only their instincts, and the promise of a bigger threat looming on the horizon of the already-razed city.

But they're hunters, so they hunt. 

Vergil goes out when he feels the bloodlust pulling at Yamato and his own patience, but the battles rarely last as long. These demons are mostly pests, but they seem especially determined to live up to their name. Seemingly only be led by the call of the artifacts, their possession of so many at once might as well paint an iridescent target on the van. As if the neon wasn't enough.

If he doesn't find an explanation, none of them will. Armed with a stack of books rather than Yamato, a pen in place of his summoned swords, and pages upon pages of notes littered around his battleground of choice in the back corner of the van. Vergil resumes his long-delayed quest for knowledge as such. 

The most promising pages tend to be the most damaged, he is loathe to realize. Between half-ripped sections to incalculable water damage to just plain old faded print—all mocked his inability. He hates it. Such shortfalls had brought him to trust Arkham, that vile, infuriating man, managing to be one step ahead of his foolish youth the entire time. Thus, he will not scrimp, not skip, not stall. The answers would reveal themselves to him, or he would simply find a way to _make_ them do so. 

And then the pile of books looms higher and he can only sigh. He scans the room and double takes before he deigns to approach it: The coffee pot. _Nero’s_ coffee pot, he’d come to realize, with how much his son coveted it. He’d never outright barred anyone else from using it, but he always had to have the first cup from every pot or there were going to be words and, presumably, glowing blue fists. 

Tea is still Vergil's own preference, but he cannot deny the similarity to its bean cousin. Not that he needed it, but there was enough of a pot left for a mug or two, and it’d be a shame to waste it. 

It’s barely warming his palm as he sits back down, inhaling the strong scent of a dark roast. Colombian, if he had to guess, though he hadn’t quite spent enough time in South America to be sure. His attention hadn't yet been demanded by the Temen-ni-gru, though he didn’t find much beyond a crumbling village and an ornery old woman who shooed him away without reason. She had yelled that there was nothing for him there, that his father had left nothing behind but her fragile old bones and memory, but his mood had soured enough to be done with the place. His skin never fared well beneath the equator, besides. The quicker he could check another lead off his list, the better.

The bitter taste is slow to pass through his bones, and thus gives him pause. He has the whole night ahead of him to tackle the books and artifacts yet again, but he finds himself leaden just looking at them. All olden, plain, nonsense covers awaited him, and though the saying begs him not to judge, he cannot help but grimace. They exist purely for knowledge, and so they do not even attempt to entice with their print. 

But there is one in the pile with such a finely decorated cover. It shines even in the low artificial light and demands attention, yet allures with its single, mysterious V. Was it a number or a letter or a title? What did it signify? Perfectly centered, elegantly framed and gilded. It has called to him since he can remember learning to read, and it has not entirely left his thoughts since. 

Force of habit is what brings the book back into his lap, fingers flipping fondly through the pages aimlessly until a wayward streak of blue ink paints a frown on his jaw. He’d almost forgotten; so much has happened since that first night. He’d memorized the entire volume as a child and carried the words with him even as he sought out much different ones the world over. For his short time as V, it had been his source of familiarity and strength. And his own son couldn’t even respect the sanctity of its pages. 

Still, he stops. What on earth did the boy think was important enough to scribble there? From his foul mouth alone he can tell Nero is no bibliophile, certainly. If he talked like Dante, he must have read like Dante—which was to say absolutely none. Nevertheless... 

Nero’s handwriting is atrocious, that much is certain. It slants like cursive, Vergil's own preferred hand, but comes across with quick, bold strokes that blend into each other annoyingly so. What _is_ legible are the shorter sentences, the incomplete thoughts. He can tell that Nero is on the brink of figuring some of the poems out, but the longer, less readable letters end abruptly, as if the pen were thrown across the page, alongside his patience. He just needs a push, a hand that won’t rip his arm off, a gaze that understands rather than criticizes. 

A father. 

Could he even be that, with enough time and practice? There was no guarantee. No sure method. He is Vergil, son of Sparda, the Legendary Dark Knight. Not Vergil, father of Nero, the Young Devil Hunter. But Nero, son of Vergil—that had a ring to it. It echoes out through his chest, clanging on his rib cage in time with his rising heartbeat. 

He could only grip the closest thing—the handle of the staff—firmly between his fingers, its demonic metal and carving grounding him back in his own corner of isolation. Blearily, he lifted the very source of his return, its dull gem mocking him with its lack of color, of insight, of answers. Its multi-faceted surface glares back with dozens of displeased versions of himself, grey on grey on grey. It all but forces him to avert his gaze.

His eyes whirl between the poems and his research, diagrams and passages highlighted for his own perusal. Besides them, pages of his father's own notes from the bank vault taunted him with their observations of his time on Earth. The words had been blending together, but one line jumps out at him:

_'Evil' is a reflection of man, thus 'evil' lurks inside the mirror. One with devil's qualities may bring the blue stone elixir and stand before the mirror._

One with devil's qualities... meaning sons of Sparda, specifically.

“Why does it mention man, then?” Vergil wondered aloud. If a devil could activate the power within a mirror, what did the evil of man have to do with any of it? If there was need to sacrifice an evil man, perhaps, he could understand. Or this was simply some witch's way of toying with humans and their perceived views of morale. But why bind such a powerful trio of artifacts to such? It drove him in circles, none of which he enjoyed.

But Vergil is if anything, too determined. 

With the staff in one hand, he stood and faced Nico's makeup mirror resolutely. Dawn's valiant fight against night's impending departure shone bright enough to blind him, but he would not admit defeat so easily. A few blinks calmed the instinctive moisture in his eyes, but he reached for the top of the glass to hold himself steady against the light. He needs to steel his narrow gaze as he raises the staff closer to the mirror. The face of himself and the artifact's gem reflected wholly in the mirror's surface, its oval capturing them perfectly. 

Still, Vergil searched every inch. Of the mirror, his own cold eyes multiplied by the dozen in the gem, and the staff. All three of them met on the mirror and himself. And from there, they depart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this my first real cliffhanger? I don't really count the first chapter bc there were no stakes yet, and if there's anything a cliffhanger needs—its high stakes! so what happened to Vergil? What's up with the thing? how??? you'll find out soon, I promise!
> 
> Just to give you a small hint, you should subscribe to the series (now named Grip, after the titular song) if you wanna get notified right away because half of the answers are gonna be posted as a new, self-contained piece, and the rest will continue here right after. But for a couple weeks I'm gonna be updating that instead of this just to give myself enough time to finish writing this for yall, and I could use a break from frantically procrastinating on this thing lol. So stay tuned in whichever way you prefer! Vergil and co will be back before you know it ;D


	11. all of your flaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil awakens to save the group from their stewing, but none of them are exactly good at reunions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a really hard one to finish, because I was very worried about getting the tone and plot elements to work together but they just REFUSED. so uh, sorry for that, but I hope there's a little something nice that everyone can take away, somewhere in this mess lol

> _The Imagination is not a State: it is the Human Existence itself._   
>  _Affection or Love becomes a State when divided from Imagination._
> 
> \- William Blake

**19 December 9:28 AM | Red Grave City**

No, Nero is not about to admit that he's pacing. He's not trying to lower his escalating heart rate, he's refused to meter his breathing every time Nico yells at him, and he's absolutely not going to stop checking his father's pulse.

Vergil's been out for _days_. For a man who talked so much about his lack of need for sleep, this was just outrageous. Dante cracked the joke about his month-long nap exactly once, and even Nico had winced at how badly it landed. But this has been so different; there is no Qliphoth secretly feeding him power, no devil arm masking his presence, no demonic invasion distracting any would-be attackers. They still had a job to do amongst all this crazy artifact hunting, but every hour Vergil remained deathly still was another ounce of patience his brother and son lost. 

Even Nico's been going through over a pack a day, silently excusing herself to pace through the alleys throughout the city. Her jokes, ever pervasive, are less and less. Nero for the first time finds himself begging her to make her crude remarks again. He misses them. He used to have Credo to throw his own jokes at, just to hear the man's half-hearted scolding. Kyrie, even with daily calls, insists that Nero stay at his father's side and remain calm, but saying and doing are still two concepts that don't always gel together for him. Nico is his unbiased third-party, and yet she's as deep into this as he is, now. She isn't supposed to fear anything, feel any shame, and yet.

Trish and Lady, to their credit, are silent pillars of strength. Throughout the week, they take watches, volunteer for food runs, and vanquish any and all incoming hordes of demons. Even their own running commentary, usually as synced and merciless as Nico’s, is curbed. Considering their own apparent histories with Vergil, Nero wonders why they even bother affording him so much respect. They paid Dante so little, and they were supposed to be friends! But then again, there is still so much he doesn’t know about all of them, so much he won’t know if they all stay so silent. 

Its almost scary how large an effect Vergil has had on these people he scarcely gave the time of day before his collapse. Watching a Son of Sparda be utterly neutralized... well, before last May, Nero hadn't thought it possible at all. Dante had fought a gigantic demon-possessed statue in the stratosphere like it was nothing. Nero himself had managed to dismantle it from the inside. His father, amongst his many other faults, had managed to tear the Devil Bringer right off him while on death's doorstep. 

Sons of Sparda were built to handle hell and then some. So this had to be _more_ than then some, somehow. 

The culprit was still laying on the floor of the van when they found it and Vergil's body that first morning. Nero hadn't felt such a lump form in his throat since he'd been forced to watch both Credo and Kyrie wither to golden dust within the space of minutes. One of them remained, thank god, but he felt himself hoping that the same would be true for his father, somehow.

The man had only shown light tolerance for him, a grim acceptance, if that. But why, at the sight of his father fallen to the floor, did his chest tighten and his hands feel weak? How did he find it within himself to surge forward and check his breathing before sprinting back outside for Dante? In the moment he hadn't questioned any of it, but now, nearly a week into sitting and waiting and watching the debilitated form of his father lay still, he could do nothing but think. It was too much. It wasn't enough. If he'd only gotten up sooner that morning, taken another watch, put the staff away— _anything_ , he could have stopped this, and they could have been done with this god-forsaken job already.

Instead he has a father he barely knows, that he could lose the chance to know any further, if he never wakes up. And as the others all tell it, Vergil's been dead before. Three strikes and you're out, right? Would this be more than that?!

As if sensing his son's panic, Vergil springs up like the dead. He was good at it, apparently. 

Nero's heart leaps into his throat all too thoroughly, leaving his voice to clutch at nothing but dryness. He masks his relief with a hand over his mouth and a flailing knock on the walls of the van—the signal. The sudden scrambling of voices and feet outside masked everything else while he stole precious few seconds to see his father wake for the first time.

But the look in his Vergil's eyes is absolutely haunted. The usual ice cold blue was pale and wavering, like a trembling limb. Like V's had, the last time Nero had saved him the trouble of facing Malphas in his debilitated state. 

Sure he’d come to expect that feeble nature from V, but his determination had balanced it, made him see the purpose instead of the weakness. Nero had admired that, he could admit. But even in the short amount of time he’d spent with his father, Vergil had never come close to showing a crack in his resolute display. His facade was too finely curated, steeled by decades of training and pursuit of power, strengthened by his own unique resolve. Even on the ground defeated by Nero’s own hand, the man had only fallen to one knee, Yamato still firm in hand, ready to leap back up and parry Nero however much longer it took to throw him down in the same way. 

But now, now was so uniquely unprecedented he had no idea where to even begin. 

Dante takes the lead, because he still knows his twin best. _Verge?_ He keeps calling, but the fear in his brother's eyes never wavers. Nero just stares, committing the look to memory, god forbid he ever saw it again. So he knows and remembers that his father still in fact felt fear in its purest and most horrible states. 

“Dante...?” Vergil finally coughs. 

“Right here, brother. You still with us?”

“I... believe so. Are you, still—?” His words are so stilted, unsure. He barely sounds like the man who’d challenged them both to duels. 

“I’m still me, if that’s what you’re asking. Not sure about you, though.”

“I was somewhere... else. Different. You were there, but, Nero—“ he finally meets his son’s eyes, searching, desperation lighting the brightest hues of his irises with something Nero had never seen. It was a day of firsts for the both of them, apparently. 

“Yeah?” Is all Nero can bring himself to ask. He knows prodding further won’t earn him much. 

“You were not yourself.” The light dies and he shakes his head solemnly. 

Dante coughs pointedly. “I hope it wasn’t as bad as your other nightmares.”

"No. It was quite the opposite, actually.”

"Really."

Vergil finally straightened up as much as he could on the bumpy couch, eyes narrowing at the array of wrinkles in his vest. He double-takes for a moment, finding his coat hanging up by the van door, mostly unwrinkled.

He spoke slowly, with a halt that kept both pairs of Sparda’s eyes upon him. “My suspicions about the artifacts were correct. Their power is immense, and not to be underestimated.”

"What, you tried to open another portal with ‘em and it backfired on you?” Nero snorted. “You earned yourself that one."

“ _Nero_.” Dante actually seems pissed. It's not a good look on him. Even when they’d fought as strangers in Fortuna, the guy had always worn some variation of a smirk; challenging him, grading him on a kind of Sparda family scale or some shit. Before, it had pissed Nero off, but now? Now it actually gave him pause. That wasn't Dante warning Nero, it was uncle warning nephew about his father. 

Vergil just shakes his head. “Perhaps. But it is not the kind of power worth wielding, as I so thoroughly discovered. I just managed to escape with my condition intact.”

“You? Not going after ancient demon stuff?” Some of the tension fell out of Dante’s shoulders in small laughs. “Who are you and what did you do with my brother?”

Nero barks, but quickly quiets. Vergil’s face is still so pale, as if the small amount of color he usually held refuses to return. Even his eyes seem to have lost their coldness. 

"It is the worst kind of power; that which deceives. You should know I have no taste for it."

Dante just nodded. 

The ladies studied the men keenly; decades of handling the delicate array of Sparda family emotions fielded before them. Lady steps forward ahead of them, waiting until she's sure the air is clear enough for now. Somehow. "So I take it you kicked whatever’s ass had you trapped in dreamland? Do we need to go finish it off?”

“No,” Vergil confirmed. “I took care of it. But the artifacts must either be destroyed or hidden; even in their vain powers, they cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”

"Such as?" Trish asked.

“For humans, they could rouse the fabric of reality itself—temporary, troublesome tricks, of course, but threatening in appearance. In demonic hands, I don’t need to explain how destructive they could possibly be.”

“Yeah, can’t say I want another mess of that size on my hands," Lady chortled with a grimace. "It probably wouldn’t even pay!”

"Well, if it’s just these things then we’re fine. We have them. Who’s hands are safer than ours?" Nero asserted, his fists finding their way out of his pockets at last. 

Vergil shook his head, uncannily messed strands of hair flying about. "You do not understand."

All of Nero’s energy drains into his frown. "Who could understand better than me? Or did you spend a night trapped in the heart of the Savior too?"

"Nero, tools such as these exist to open doors to the underworld. Rulers of their respective hell's wield artifacts of much more power on a regular basis."

Vergil reached for the very staff that had done this to him, no hesitation or fear in his grasp. Nero has half a mind to reach out and stop him, but his right hand refuses to comply. The staff comes back to life with a blue glow—far removed from its original orange-green. Yet his father wields it as if he knows it well, like he had found it himself, somehow. "They are why the human world is still so full of demons, even as the Qliphoth is fallen and the hell gates shut."

“Which means whoever's after this stuff probably has an interest in calling more of their friends here,” Lady demurred. 

Vergil nodded. "Your client has the right idea of collecting them from the wild, but I must advise against handing them to any one individual. Whoever they are, they cannot handle all that they entail."

"What if they actually have the same idea as you, huh?" Nero pressed forward, putting himself between his father and the others. "You think you’re all high and mighty because some statue gave you a bad dream? Nobody’s paying you!”

Dante pulled at his nephew's shoulder. "Nero, back off for a sec."

"You’re on his side?" Nero gaped.

"Hey, hell's actually frozen over in a few spots." 

"You’re serious." 

“Take it from twenty years of runnin' the shop," he said with a salesman's grin and a wink. "I’ve dealt with tons of these trinkets and they’re never your friend. I’ve smashed a few of 'em myself. Unless they can blow something up, they’re not worth the price at auction." 

“It’s still my job. My decision.”

Dante put his hands up in surrender. Vergil nodded solemnly. Both of them regarded Nero with a resolute amount of trust. Suddenly, the exact thing he had wanted—demanded from them—was all too much. The young devil hunter had to shake his head before he could let his own mask break. 

At this point they could certainly use the money, with how long this damn job's taken them. He's used to being done from hours to a few days, tops. Even the Qliphoth had been banged out in a day after the month of prep they'd had. How could this be different? Why were so many of its pieces tripping them up? Yet, it still seemed so small---no city in peril, no giant masterminds prowling the streets, just a nameless client and some annoying hordes. 

His uncle and father are right in front of them, their twin faces in unison for another rare moment. They suspect something bigger, more dangerous, more powerful, but they will deflect to him. Because he told them to, weeks ago, and they agreed. Sons of Sparda, so far, were pretty good at keeping their word. They'd cut down the Qliphoth, they'd managed not to kill each other for half a year on their own, and they were still here, all on his request alone.

Will they agree to what he decides because of that same loyalty, or because they genuinely share his thoughts? Because they've actually found some semblance of a family already?

Nero shuts his eyes and breathes deeply. Whatever happens, happens. He's prepared to own it, like all his other mistakes. Whether or not they think less of him for it, will be an entirely different story he hopes has a better ending than the last one.

He levels with them, three sets of matching blue eyes all syncing up, before he dares to speak. "I still wanna find out who the hell this guy is. If he's reasonable, we work with him; if he's not, we kill him and deal with the artifacts. Good?"

The sons of Sparda and demon hunters at their side all nodded. Nico provided her own, custom-designed grin. That was the straw that broke the solemnity's grasp, and the group broke off to their own respective corners of the van for the first time in a week. As grateful as Nero is for the sight, not everything can fall back into place so easily. He waits, a few long minutes for the ears to turn away and the eyes to avert, before he pins Vergil with another glance.

"When you pull yourself together," he tells his father with the lowest tone he can manage, "you could stand to explain a bit more."

Vergil stared for so long, Nero felt frozen on the spot. He didn't doubt his father could do that, somehow, but he also couldn't bring himself to even try and move, lest he miss whatever new face the man would show him next.

It’s not much; he simply nods and blinks and then his eyes are lost again. But Nero has seen it, and Vergil hadn't backed down. Whatever could explain that, he's more eager to learn about than he cares to admit. If the hints about V's nightmares were anything to go by... he may not want to. But he does. And yet he shouldn't. Maybe that was the real curse of this family.

* * *

**19 December 6:05 PM | Red Grave City**

Vergil gathered his collection of materials around him, weeks of books and notes arranged in a manner only he could decipher. 

"The artifact that you initially found is called the Staff of Judgement," he pointed at the source of all their trouble, its coiled snakes and dull gem nothing more than a paperweight now. "It is known as a key."

"A key?"

"Many different types exist throughout hell," he went on, "this one opened a portal just large enough to allow us passage between the realms."

"I knew I had seen something similar," Trish confirmed with narrow eyes, "and Dante had as well."

"Oh, yeah..." he trailed off, running a finger over the intricate carving. "another part of that house of horrors."

Nero looked between the twins with a puzzle on his face, but neither brother would meet him with the missing pieces. 

Vergil instead trudged onward, his voice a steady stream against the tide of confusion. "Indeed. It seems particularity connected to mirrors, which is how I was incapacitated. It was something of an alternate world."

"A what?

Trish stepped forward, a glaze in her eyes that spoke to truth before her lips moved. "Something of a pocket dimension. Lots of them get opened by demons and witches that think they can hide things, twist fate, and such."

Vergil nodded, fanning his hand over the papers. He landed on the stack Nero recognized from Sparda Express. His father still hadn't let him see it, and he'd been too distracted to try and read it himself lately.

"My father's notes spoke of the consequences of entering such a world, and a specific artifact that would make a traversal possible," he point at a crude illustration of another staff, carved with wings instead of snakes. "The Staff of Hermes."

"But we don't have that one," Lady reminded them.

"I encountered it, when I was sent to the mirror world. It acted as the other side of the door, per se."

"Alright, cool, but what the hell does this have to do with the job?" Nero threw his arms up and leaned back into Nico's counter. He fisted his hands into his pockets with all his impatience, because he really didn't wanna go to blows, but he was tired of feeling stupid over all this. 

Vergil studied them all, but not before landing on his son and sighing. Nero could almost swear, for a split second, that the man had actually wavered, and once again refused to look at him _for_ him. What had happened to those thousand-yard stares? The challenging glares? Even that uppity glower that set him off? All of his father's looks were rude, yeah, but they were all he knew of him, so far. Had a week-long nap sapped all the crankiness outta him, or what?

A deep breath, erasing all the cracks in the facade. "That wasn't all I found while I was away."

Nero's fists clenched tighter, strangling his fingers and the growing pit in his stomach. _What now?_

Vergil reached into his coat and slowly uncurled his fist around a stone-shaped object. Nero almost wants to call it an egg, because its golden brown and shiny in the light. But the group curled in closer around it and quickly saw otherwise: it was a multi-sided die, with emblems Nero couldn't read, but assumed were more demon power bullshit. Why else would his father have such an interest in it? Or the client? Or demons?

"The Philosopher's Stone," Lady and Trish gasped in tune.

Nero glanced between the two of them; solemn looks haunting their eyes and paling their faces. Even Dante, to the flank of them, took a heave back and never took his eyes from the thing, all traces of humor sucked from his aura. 

"What am I missing?"

"Its how to open a hell gate 101," Lady told him while holding Nico back from springing on the thing. The mechanic's eyes did everything but sparkle at sight of one of the underworld's most prized artifacts. 

"This is just one part of the spell," Trish added, fingers drumming with tiny sparks over her arms, "but its typically the hardest to obtain."

"Because one must venture to a mirror world to find or make one," Vergil finished.

"It can't be a coincidence that these brought you here _and_ to this."

"Exactly as I concluded."

Dante and Nero rolled their eyes in tune as the smart ones puffed their feathers about. What did the specifics matter when the demonic stuff couldn't turn into a kickass sword or gun? At least Nightmare-beta, in all its weirdly-shaped glory, had the ability to be useful _and_ cool.

Lady hemmed and hawed at the collection of stuff, both colors of her eyes flicking about. "No wonder so many demons would be after this crap."

"Which is why this should be a job you all refuse," Vergil nodded.

"You said it yourself, most of this stuff is just pretty junk," Nero swept his right hand over the useless forms of the Wheel of Destiny and Staff of Judgement. "As long as we make sure they're not on when we make the hand off, they shouldn't be able to do anything, right?"

The others just looked between each other, blankly. They never exactly worried over their clientele as much. Humans who dabbled with demonic shit either couldn't figure out how to make it work, or died for their efforts. If they could get some money out of them before things went south, it was profit as good as any other job.

"It won't be that simple, Nero," Vergil finally says. No mocking, no challenging, no obtuse words about man or nature or shit. 

Yet his son's anger doesn't stem. "Why not?"

"You know nothing of your client, nor why they want what you've collected. Handing them over would be a mistake, given the circumstances."

"Just because all your plans always go to shit doesn't mean _mine_ will," he snipes.

"I wonder if you even have one?"

"I do!" Nero can't stand it with this guy, doubting and mocking him like an idiot, _like Dante_. "We'll meet 'em and then take 'em out if we have to! Piece of cake!"

"What judgement do you count on knowing whether they can be estimated? They could be planning to ambush you as well," Vergil warned with a voice full of steel.

"You don't know that."

"Yet, you don't seem to plan for that."

"I don't need to plan to kick ass—I just do, alright?!"

Vergil hummed and looked away, yet his lips still thinned and his brow furrowed. Oh, he absolutely had _no_ faith in him—and why would he? The guy didn't like anyone, constantly tried to fight the only family he had, and treated anyone with the displeasure of knowing him like a second-class citizen. What the fuck _would_ he care for? 

"I'll remind you one last time, _father_ ," Nero spat, all the venom in his voice curling into his fists on the table. "It's my job, my call. Either you help out, or you can sit right here and take another nap, alright?"

There was the glare. Yet a wave of something passed through it—brief and awkward as it was. Nero doesn't recognize it. All he can tell is that whatever faith Vergil seemed ready to hand over earlier had curled right back in, right into that judgmental stare that still cut through like a storm of cuts to his core. 

Let him be faithless and worthless, Nero resolved. Vergil had done his part, with the books and papers. He'd never expected much more from him besides that, and Dante is the same but with the courtesy to have no interest in anything but the fight. And if all that they've learned so far is true, there's a fight waiting for them with a name tag that needs some filling in. If talking isn't going to solve anything anymore, he's keen to grab his sword and do some _real_ work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nero: "What the fuck would [Vergil] care for?" (you, you silly kid!!! I yell while crying into my keyboard)  
> also Nero: ok I was glad to have my dad back for 2 seconds but he can leave again now, thanks
> 
> I feel like Nero's titles for Vergil fall into 2 groups: "dad" for when he's feeling soft, and "father" for when Vergil needs another beat down lol. as much as i love this boy, he follows in his uncle's footsteps when it comes to thinking bout stuff for long. but on his dad's side, he can't help but get caught in an angry circle of yelling with anyone even trying to doubt him, and Verge doesn't exactly have any practice being a supportive/protective dad, either. (things usually get worse before they get better, right?)
> 
> lets just say vergil can't help but worry, but he's not exactly great about expressing it, huh? it'll be a bit before he totally expresses what happened to him in the mirror world, but I do wanna make sure it gets the time and care it deserves. so stay tuned for that, and check out [briars, my joys and desires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938729/chapters/57568339) if you haven't already! thanks!


	12. and all of my flaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero leads the crew to make a deal, only to find an ugly amount of overtime awaiting them.

> _The wind is up: hark—how it howls! Methinks_   
> _Till now I never heard a sound so dreary._   
> _Doors creak, and windows clap, and night’s foul bird,_   
> _Rook’d in the spire, screams loud!_   
>  \- _The Grave_ , Robert Blair, 1743

**20 December 6:36 PM | Red Grave City Port**

Here they are, back again at the start. Nero would laugh at how funny it was if he wasn't so focused. They'd had nothing riding on this, then. Just a crazy fisherman and some weird lights, a few stray demons runnin' amok. Now they have a van-full of hunters at the ready, though he doesn't know which would be a worse scenario: finding the fight they're ready for, or a civil exchange that will explain nothing—leaving all their hunches in the dust. 

One thing is much different: he _cares_ about what they'll think. It's hopeless to even pretend otherwise now, but he won't admit it, either. Should he be the one to start the fight? End it? Provoke their client? Or just disappear and be done with it? The only thing for sure is that Nero is in charge, and his choices will steer them right or wrong. He just hopes, for all the sour luck he and his dumbass family have, that he doesn't make a complete fool of himself. 

It had been so easy, these past few months. He should've known better— _felt_ better with these new, fine-tuned instincts of his. Lady and Trish had kept their distance, helping when they wanted to and graciously stepping out of the way when their paths crossed. Morrison had kept his word where his money was and had yet to lead Nero wrong. But if the broker himself was being led wrong from the start, well, there wasn't much they could do besides climb up the totem pole and shake everything down. 

Dante being gone wasn't much of a change, but he wasn't just Dante anymore, now was he? And Vergil, well, he was his own enigma. When it had just been him and Nico plus Kyrie and the kids, things had gotten easy, routine. Now they're busy and confounding and infuriating and he doesn't even have a city's worth of crazy plant roots to take it out on anymore. And this part of the job isn't even guaranteed to _have_ a fight? _C'mon!_

The van rolls to a slow stop, the heater and lights coming to a complete standstill. Nico flashes the hi-bars once, twice. 

A pair across the road does the same. 

As a group, their knuckles twist around their weapons, swords and guns alike. At Nero's word, they'll all either raise them or put them down, despite how much he knows they crave the thrill of battle. For him, they'll listen. Exactly _why_ , he can't bear to dwell on for more than a breath that rings hollowly through his lungs. 

"Stick to the plan," he reminds them, and a circle of nods, from enthusiastic to barely registered, meet him in turn. 

He walks out, Dante at his side, Trish by his heels, and Vergil lagging behind. Nico remains in the driver's seat flanked by Lady, both watching keenly through the windshield. 

From his coat he pulls out the very staff that started it all, and makes his way forward. 

"Hey there!" Nero called in his most jovial voice. He usually tried to be genuinely nice to clients, but this is a special exception. Plus, it felt like the only way to keep him from scowling. Even if these guys paid well and let them be on their merry way, they'd still kept him away from home for _weeks_ , forced his family back into his life with no warning, and dug up a bunch of wacky demon shit from nowhere. If not for the circumstances, he would've charged them double and blocked their number. 

From the shadows of a few banged up cars, they emerge: a group of shady-looking humans themselves. Nothing of the demonic flavors pull at Nero's senses. Okay, okay, he kinda expected that. If demons were gonna jump 'em, they would've done it already, but that didn't mean this lot still couldn't. 

One of them stopped and nodded at Nero. "You got 'em all?" they asked. 

"You got the money?" Nero raised his chin and the Staff of Judgement, its colorless gem catching the yellow light of the headlights in its facets. Dante let the little red rock twinkle between his fingers while Trish twirled her artifact in her hands. Vergil, behind them all, simply observes, his arms folded over firmly. 

A woman to the left holds up a duffel, opening it a bit. The amount of green bills that appear before Nero's eyes almost makes them fall out of his head, but he blinks enough times to ground them back in. That'd be enough money to take the weeks he's lost off for a vacation! Show Kyrie a part of the outside world she's never seen, fix up the orphanage for good, maybe even get himself a shirt without holes in it. But that would be so _easy_ , and if there's anything he's not, it's a slacker. At least, not with his _job_ . He can't lose sight of his responsibility, can't let himself get comfortable. Despite all the wiring in his genes that's been twisting loose lately, he won't be a stony asshole like his father nor a cagey fool like his uncle. He's just _Nero_ , and he'll do this his way. 

"Better late than never, huh?" Nero smooths over his own cracks with a sideways smile. 

The clients don't react. Not even with a snort or an eye roll like Nico would. 

_Tough crowd_ , he thought. But his ego can take the hit, long as these people just put the bag down and didn't pull anything silly. 

Nevertheless, they line up and stare straight ahead. Nero to the woman with the duffel, Dante to the leader, and Trish with the last one. There's a tense moment where they all just wait, the air thick with sea salt, fog, and silence. 

Quickly, quietly, they all change hands. Nero finds his eyes glued to those around him, as they give their hard-fought bounties over and the woman practically shoves the money bag into his grasp. He holds onto the staff harder and far longer than he should, but still lets go. The clients all look at him sideways, sure, but he's not about to let them off easy. 

They turn and face their own car, but a blank space of air that begins to pull at his keenest nerves, the wind increasing and charging not unlike it had almost a month before... 

From nothing, it begins: a tear in time and space, not unlike those Vergil liked to make. But from the way his father glares as it gapes open, it's not remotely close to those of his design. 

The demons emerge, just like always. What does shock him, unlike everything else, is the incredulous looks that bloom on his clients' faces. 

"Where—?" one of them gapes and double-takes all around. 

They receive nothing but hissing and roars in response. 

"Hey, she said she'd _help_ us!" another shouted at the portal. 

"Back up!" the last one yelped as they pulled out a gun. 

With that, the demons charged and the winter night burned alight with gunshots. 

Nero instinctively rolled, behind him, his uncle and father remained still but attentive. Of course, they'd be fine regardless of any stray bullets, but habit was hard to break. He certainly didn't _like_ getting shot. As the clients all screamed and shot blindly at the demons, he tore forward still, hauling them all together and onto the ground. 

"What the hell?!" he scolds them. 

"They said they'd protect us," the leader gasps, "if we could deliver some stuff." 

Nero chokes on something between a growl and a scoff. "You idiots! That's _my_ job!" 

The man who'd just looked so confident and imposing as he paid him a small fortune now shirked to his side, shaking in his literal boots. "The city's still not safe! What fuckin' hope do _we_ have against 'em?" 

"Demons don't save humans from other demons," Nero demurred, and then scratched his nose as it wrinkled with frustration, "at least, _these_ ones won't." 

"Yeah, well," the woman jumped away from an approaching riot, eyes wide with fear, "are you gonna do it or not?" 

Nero snorts. He has half a mind to ask for overtime. Maybe when they were done. "With pleasure." 

He rolls forward and slices through the first wave, shreds of riots and wraiths painting the pavement. It was actually a decent challenge, if Nero could say so himself, but it wasn't just him. From every diving fury he can dodge, Dante is at his left, stopping it dead with just a flick of a wrist, while Vergil appears at his right, parrying it into oblivion. Only as the demon fell, dead, did it finally dawn on him: this is the first time they've all fought together. Wordlessly, easily, three Sons of Sparda all stand side by side, a wave of demons defeated by their combined hands. Even six months ago, he'd have never imagined it. Just getting them to stand next to each other was like pulling teeth the first time, and yet. 

They're here. They came back, and they're with him. Its dawning on him all over again, coating all his nerves in disbelief, and _shit_ , maybe even pure _awe_. 

An accented yelp pulls all their heads back towards the van, now-hovering in the air, surrounded by waves of purplish magic. 

"A little help up here?" Nico called, hands clinging to the steering wheel while her life depended on it. Around her, the van's contents floated and flew past, just missing her head. Below, Lady struggles with Kalina Ann's climbing cable, yanking uselessly on its chain. 

"Comin' right up!" Nero ran back while his uncle and father leapt forward, the both of them hot on a baphomet's hovering claws. It kept out of their reach, however, teleporting from side to side, it's hold on the van never wavering. 

It takes all of his leg strength and a good "ridin' high!" for Nero to reach the van's height, but his weight isn't nearly enough to bring it back down. His senses tell him that the demon isn't dead, and might not be for a bit, if any more bastards join the party. But he doesn't give himself a second thought or pause for Nico's surprised yelp as he reaches through the window and grabs her arm, pulling her to his side. He leaps back off, the warm blue glow of his wings gliding them both gently back to earth. 

"You could at least ask a girl before you grab her!" Nico swatted at his non-breaker arm. "Or Kyrie'll have to hear ‘bout this, too!" 

"You're welcome," he sighed right back at her. 

"I woulda had 'em," she swore as she punched her palm with a fist, "if, y'know, all my arms weren't floatin' about." 

Nero unceremoniously dumped her on the ground with a huff. "Just worry about that later and take cover, alright?" 

Nico just scoffed and flipped him off, but jogged back to Lady's side. 

Nero sighed in tune with another portal opening up next to him, releasing another wave of demons. Red Queen roared hotly in his hand, demanding to cut through them. He's more than happy to oblige. Across the way, Vergil and Dante are still slicing through demons in tandem, far more gracefully than he could have expected. But that was what six months of practice bought, wasn't it? He could ask them, maybe, after this was finally done—to explain how they coordinated their moves so seamlessly, despite their opposing styles. Dante hadn't said a word about actually using Yamato when he'd given it to him, and Vergil sure as hell wasn't going to spill anytime soon. But he still hadn't gotten a chance to beat him since Fortuna, and if they had any spare time after this, well... 

_"Nero!"_

He doesn't see it, but he sure as hell _feels_ it—a rush, a tingling in his right arm that still feels sore when he hasn't stretched right. The air next to his hair whooshes sharply as a slice of blue energy flies past, cutting a fury in half. As he blinks, a tuft of white hair falls from his brow, cleanly shorn right from his head. 

By the time he can even turn, Vergil appears right behind him, his blue aura gleaming as strong as the moment he'd been reborn atop the Qliphoth. 

Nero just stares for a long second as he fires Blue Rose into the gullet of a charging antenora. 

"Uh," he gaped as it fell dead at both of their feet, ashing away into the salty air, "thanks." 

"Don't mention it," Vergil quickly murmured, then turned and bashed another antenora with the end of his _saya_ . The way he said it made Nero hear a phantom " _really_ " that would have been added, if his father were the type to over-explain himself. Nope, he had to get a dad who was the total opposite. But at least watching his actual back had made it onto the list. That was certainly useful. 

A different kind of blast flies wildly past them both, demanding Nero's attention again. It's that same kind of weird purple energy that had lifted the van into the air, he thinks, but bigger and more powerful. The sound of charging clears the fog from his brain as he sees Lady wielding the weirdly-shaped gun from the back, Nico babbling at her side. Probably criticizing her aim or cheering her on—either way, Nero could see the annoyance on Lady's face from miles away, and he certainly didn't envy her. 

Seeing Lady use Nightmare-beta and hearing about what it could do were such wildly different things. It reminds him vaguely of Artemis' shots, and he can see why Dante and Trish instantly wanted to entrust it to the walking arsenal. It was another thing he hoped she'd let him check it out for himself. 

But there's a yelp and a crash as Nico jumps back, and Nero sees the corpse of another fury fall dead at her feet, just as Lady had barely gotten the shot off. Between that, and how long it takes to charge a decent array, he can't imagine she'll get a shot at the next one, but— 

A grunt, a gasp, and a roar echo out all at once, and the tingling in Nero's arm returns. 

Lady's turned and blocked a diving fury with Nightmare-beta itself, knocking all of them apart. For her part, the demons look plenty dead, but she's taken a blow, too. Nico rushes over to her side, thankfully unharmed, and Nero feels his legs begin to do the same. But his eyes are drawn away, towards the demonic gun, as power drains from its odd barrel. It skids yards away, waiting. And the demons, unlike Nero, don't hesitate. A riot nabs it and hops away, back towards the clients, who cower in nothing but fear. Somehow, the thing knows how to hold it up, charge, and aim, _right for them._

Nero roars before he even thinks about what he's doing. His claws appear and reach forward as if they can pull the air forward for him, and his wings work in tandem. Like Lady, he throws himself in front of the group of cowering humans, his sword and claws slashing through pure demonic energy. He'd never directly fought the original Nightmare like Dante apparently had—twice—but just seeing V use the summon had never felt _close_ to this. As the blast tears through him, it feels not unlike the first wave of power that overtook his form on the Qliphoth—one that had been pure, unfiltered motivation. But this energy actually sears his nerves, more like when Agnus had first stabbed him all those years ago. It certainly hurts like hell, but even as he begins to perceive it, he can feel himself steeling through it, working around the blast as if simply redirecting the momentum of the shot. He doesn't know much about physics or whatnot, but he imagines he's gone through all of its laws in seconds. 

And just as soon as its fired, the blast is gone. Even with his demonic eyes, red and fierce as they are, he has to blink absurdly to clear the light from his sight. He staggers a little, but he can still stand. All fingers and limbs accounted for; he just reminds himself to breathe. 

With a hiss, the riot rolls back into its ball, wrapping tightly around the gun, and dives into Nero. Again, he dodges and follows its path, just to see that its... running away? With the most powerful weapon known to demons since Nightmare itself. 

Behind him, Trish is now defending Nico and Lady, who has more than replaced Nightmare-beta with her own arsenal. 

Vergil and Dante are still zipping about, all but toying with their prey. 

"Hey," Nero calls, every layer of demonic power over his voice tinged with command, "they're making a break for it! With the gun!" 

Five heads all turn towards him, enraptured, wearing different looks of confusion. 

Nero turns back, finding the clients running for a safe-looking pile of shipping containers, while the chaos rolling past them keeps going. Instinctively, he reaches for Punchline, revving it up and leaping on with the sting of cold air under his wings. If he can time his own dive bomb right, he can cut off the demon just as it tried to do to him, and it would look _so_ sick— 

A portal rips open in front of him, the shadow of a baphomet replaced by the ghastly form of a woman. 

Nero gasps, loosens his grip on Punchline, and falls, only one thought able to form on his lips: 

" _Malphas?_ " 

An echoing cackle pierced the silence of the night in triplicate, drawing the attention of all who dared to look upon the three-headed demoness. 

"One shot wasn't enough for you, huh," Nero growls even as he's splayed in a heap on the cold pavement, "or did you want a couple for the other heads?" 

She simply smirked a wide, ugly thing that would have looked distressed if it weren't for the streams of black blood spilling from her dark eyes. “You cannot kill a witch so easily. And _we_ are _three_.“ 

With a flick of one of her many wrists, another portal opened up wide, but instead of bringing demons forth, it reigned them in. Nero growled at sight of the riot that evaded him, its claws still clutching Nightmare-beta tightly. In another twist, an agonized creak echoed off the scattered shipping crates, and Nero turned just in time to catch sight of the van again being lifted and thrown right at him. He rolled out of the way, but desperately turned to find the others. Lady and Nico were still far enough from harm's reach, but Trish's bolt of lightning failed to break its momentum, and her arms were clipped by the van's rapidly twirling wheels. 

Nero winced for her as the crash rolled over her, leaving a tangle of blonde hair fanned against the ground. 

Yet more and more of the surviving demons slither past, taking cheap swipes at Nero that he dodges easily, but without the space to get up. They don't matter much more, though, now that he can _see_. Everything makes some fucked-up sense: use some humans to get some shit so even the hunters don't think much of 'em, then send the demons in. It's just dawning on him as the demons set Nightmare-beta right into Malphas' hands, to her utter delight. In her grasp, the gun erupted in light, its charge escalating far faster and brighter than Lady's ever had—almost as bright as Nightmare itself. It shoots far past him, and right where Dante and Vergil had been. 

The blast knocks his uncle right off his feet, like nothing had since Urizen. For a moment, he looked like he was trying to block it with his namesake sword, but within seconds even that became too much, and the legendary blade vanished from its wielder's grasp, leaving Dante defenseless and thrown in a heap besides Trish. Nero's jaw threatened to hang open—in either concern or anger, he doesn't even know anymore—but Dante's twitching limbs remind him well enough of their family's strength, and ease a relieved breath back into his lungs. 

What does surprise him, however, is his father. Vergil, rising from what had been Dante's left, walks slowly towards Malphas, a glare in his thin eyes that Nero does not envy. A fiendish smirk begins to grow on his jaw, despite his own pain and disdain. V hadn't able to do shit last time, but _now_? With all that damn power he had limped so desperately for? He could probably take the witch out in seconds. But, of course, being the theatrical jackass he is, probably plans for something much worse. And as much as Nero isn't used to thinking fondly of his dad, this is the first and only way he can accept it: kicking the absolute shit out of a demon. What better way could they possibly bond? 

Nero perches himself up on a solid knee, just to see. Vergil stops, stares at Malphas for what feels like forever, and rests a single hand on Yamato, waiting. 

"So you've returned to your true self," Malphas crooned, curling her claws about. 

Vergil said and did nothing, his face an icy manifestation of the chilling ocean mist around them. 

"That's a shame. I always did find your most powerful form to be the most... loyal," she laughed and swirled her arms about again, summoning another set of portals. From it, a group of scudo and proto angelos, just like before. But, besides them, walked another angelo form Nero had never seen: 

As tall as Cavaliere Angelo himself, but with a bulkier armor set that swirled with energy just like the protos, wielding a gigantic, blunt broadsword. 

Vergil freezes entirely. His readied hand drops from Yamato, falling limp at his side. 

Just as slowly and stony as the man in from of them, the new Angelo plunges its blade into the ground, bringing forth a devious magenta sigil that spreads quickly. Nero scrambles away from it, though again, it veers past him completely, its prey already targeted: his father. 

Where he had teleported easily time and time again, seamlessly ducked and weaved like the smoothest of silks, and bluntly blocked the fiercest of strikes, Vergil remains still. The only change Nero can see is the uncharacteristic widening of his eyes—eyes he'd hadn't seen like that since V collapsed in front of him and begged for help. 

Instead, V, Vergil, collapses all the same; quietly, easily. The sigil burns mockingly below him, as if it drags all the impenetrable force from his body. from his arms and hands, violent sparks of energy electrocute him while the blades of scudo angelos impale his limbs into the ground. Amidst it all, one tendril of power takes form and reaches right through the tails of his long coat, pulling away with a bright flash of golden light in hand. 

Nero cannot bear to watch any longer. His eyes fall back upon the demon witch, her cackle heralded by three sets of lungs that rung hollowly like a smoker's. 

"Well, well," she smirked. "Here I thought I would only find one Son of Sparda, and you bring me all three!" her hideous form floated towards the poor clients, their pale faces scrunching together in pure fear. Malphas leered close enough to prick the apple of one's cheek with a single claw, earning a high shriek that sends her into hysterics. 

"That sort of performance deserves a reward, does it not?" she pondered. 

"Y-you—you said you'd.... help us," the human woman stammered. 

"And that I will," Malphas confirmed. One of her hands held the woman by the chin, and two others held each cheek. Still, the human trembled in her full grasp. "I shall finish what the demon king started." 

With that, she tossed the pile of humans backwards into a frightened, jumpy huff. Out of their arms and bags, the rest of the artifacts spilled forth, their demonic power glowing brightly and beautifully for the witch's grasp. A few smaller demons scuttle by to pick them up and disappear through portals, just as quickly and discreetly as they came. 

"So go!" she commanded with another regal wave. "Tell your kind that their efforts here are pointless, and they can run now, if they please." The pack of them were already long gone, only the distant echoes of their panting and frenzied sprints bouncing off the walls of shipping containers. "Although it will only buy them precious time before their inevitable ending. All the better for the thrill of the hunt, no?" 

Her vile smile brought no joy to any of them. 

"I should thank you for this _especially_ ," she held up Nightmare-beta like the apocalyptic prize it was, "I knew no human could handle it, and my scouts had trouble finding it themselves!" 

Her laughter grated on his ears and patience, and Nero could bear none of it any longer. He launched himself right up to his feet, not stopping for Red Queen or Blue Rose, left scattered at his feet. His demon took over with a bright blue wave of power mid-leap, and he bore his fangs widely as he charged. 

But where he leapt and reached out for blood and gore, she was no more. 

Her faces and sinister voices vanish in a thin violet fog that he falls through like a thick soup, landing right back on his knees. 

Just across the road, all three of her heads step from a new portal and laugh. 

"Enjoy your lovely city while you can," she croons with all three of her heads. "I'll be back for it shortly." 

In one last burst of dark magic, Malphas and all her demons were gone. 

For a long time, they all just sit and groan, the salty air becoming thicker with a late night's fog. Nero takes one last kick at the ground and begrudgingly pulls himself up. 

"Everyone okay?" he calls. 

He receives a round of half-hearted nods and sighs. Lady and Trish help each other up while Nico collects their guns from the dirt. Dante hovers around his brother, who stands slowly but steadily. The only evidence of Vergil's fall is the sweat on his brow and blood that stains several spots on his coat. 

"At least we've still got a great payday, right?" Dante rubs his hands together, a gleeful smirk suddenly plastered to his mug. 

Nero rolled his eyes and kneeled at the abandoned duffel bag, battered by the chaos. A few bills spilled out, stained and stomped on, but still identifiable. Yet, as soon as his fingers wrap around one, it ashes away into dust. Desperately he grabs for another roll, and another, but they all fade from his grasp like the demons themselves. With a growl, he leaps up and kicks the now-empty bag away, heated clouds of fog escaping his throat like plumes of smoke. And for how his eyes blazed with rims of red, it probably was. 

Cautiously, the others stepped forward. But Nero met them halfway, marching past Dante's outstretched arm, right up to his father's ever-puffed out chest. 

Fearlessly, Nero poked Vergil in the middle of his vest. "You knew, didn't you?" 

"Of Malphas?" Vergil actually sounded aghast, but his lips pursed with annoyance. "No, I can't say that I did." 

"Just shut the hell up." He could take his father's criticism, that was easy, but his pity is new and sour and _weak_. 

Vergil's face scrunches up something awful, like a paper balled up and crushed. Without his trademark glare, it's become something else, something... disappointed. 

"I once allowed someone else to handle plans in my stead," he finally said, almost in a whisper. "Not being aware of each exact detail wound up becoming my downfall. I trusted you would not fall prey to the same result." 

"And what did you do to help?!" 

"I—" 

"I said _shut up!_ " 

Nero charges forward like a bat outta hell, Red Queen blazing in tune with his own roar. Vergil barely has time to lift Yamato up in time to block the strike, still sheathed and all. The weight bears down upon him, all of his son’s rage locking their swords in place as if to dictate the battle. 

But, Vergil knows, this is not how sons of Sparda fight. Not before the Qliphoth, and certainly not now. 

With a wide swing Nero lunges back and forward, nearly grazing his father’s vest. But a Vergil with his wits about him is a speed demon, and he wastes no time teleporting out of his son’s path. This only ticks off Nero even more, however, and Vergil can hear the boy’s roars get ever-more frustrated with each swing he dodges. 

“Just—stand still already!” 

Nero slams Red Queen in the ground and pulls Blue Rose out, emptying an entire clip into the nighttime abyss where his father’s form kept fading into sparks of blue. As the man ventures closer, he raises Yamato to deflect the next clip, and the one that follows, barely even blinking at the ricochets inches from his brow. 

“C’mon! I thought you _wanted_ a rematch?!” 

“Yes,” Vergil finally spoke, bending beneath another shot and twisting away from his son’s range. “But not like this. You're not focused, and you’re _certainly_ not at full strength.” 

In a single motion, Nero yanks his sword back out of the ground and swings it at his father wildly. “I’m strong enough to kick your ass _any day!_ ” 

Vergil pauses, harrumphs, and idles Yamato at his side. 

The sight is the final straw. For Nero, who tightens his fist around his blade so tightly it begins to purple as he charges forward, blade behind him and breaker out. 

He swings, roars, and reaches out to grab his father by that damn stiff collar, wanting to throw him down and stab him with the Red Queen. But as he strains to catch him, another hand hooks around his right wrist and pulls. 

All his momentum still needs to go somewhere, but it can only find the cold, salty ground. 

His arm tingles something fierce, as he flies past his father, but his brain is quick to remind himself it’s just shock, not pain. A strangled gasp escapes his throat as he falls into a heap, Red Queen clanging uselessly besides him. 

As he groans to see above him, Vergil is still in place, stony as can be, Yamato still safely sheathed. The man hadn’t even _used_ his actual sword, and he’d thrown him around like a rag doll! 

A gasp falls out of his throat as it grasps for air, his right arm reaching for his chest. His demonic arm, because Vergil, as he finally turns fully, is holding his Devil Breaker. Punchline sparks out of tune, energy still pent-up from the charge, desperate for somewhere to go. But, as the sparks flare out in the coldness of the night, he can tell that the breaker is fine, slipped cleanly from his grasp like a glove. 

If only it felt like that. 

There was no pain, and even if there had been it would've been gone by now, but it was still fucked. His arm still glowed with pure energy, but flickered between flesh and light uncertainly. As if the limb itself couldn't figure out what had happened, as it still clenched at memories of grasping nothing but a torrent of blood and missing bones. 

Nero scrambled up, snatched Punchline back from his father, and marched towards the van. 

Only the whistling winter wind and remnants of demon bones rattled behind him. The others flanked Vergil in circle, watching the young devil hunter's form whip away angrily. 

"What?" Vergil rose a brow at the crowd collectively glaring at him. 

"Did you really have to do _that?_ " Nico barked as she ran after her partner. 

She didn't stick around to hear him, of course, but that didn't stop Vergil's reflexive, defensive scowl. Yet, the cold winter bore down harshly upon his brow, as if reprimanding him as sternly as his mother once would have. 

"It was the only way I knew to surely stop him," his voice was lower, but still firm. 

It was a frail explanation, one that fell apart as broadly as Dante's shoulders did with a hefty, hollow sigh. 

* * *

**20 December 7: 48PM | Red Grave City Port**

Nero yanks the driver’s door open and throws himself at the wheel, all four of his hands grasping at anything that can make the thing _go_. The van is still a scrambled, shaken mess, but Nico always leaves the keys in the ignition just in case and if they would just fucking turn— 

"Don't pull the wheel off!" Nico shouts, reaching for the driver's door handle before Nero shuts it in her face, nearly taking her fingers off. That sends the first wave of guilt crashing over him, but it’s met by a sea wall of rage that barrels forward like a tsunami, with angry foam awaiting at port. His fingers find the keys and turn them, only to be met with an amount of force he can't believe is resisting him. Still, he pulls and yanks and claws at the wheel and the stick shift and whatever that other lever does, desperate for something to just move and let him get away from here. 

Nico shrieks again, her hand on his other shoulder now, almost throwing herself between Nero and the dash. 

"Why won't it fuckin' start?!" he roars, but she scarcely flinches. Her eyes look so big through her glasses, but there's not a shred of anger or frustration in them, at least he thinks. It's hard to really tell while his vision still flares in reds and blues. 

"Let me drive," she insists, no fear in her voice. Just a twinge of annoyance and a level of calm that still feels uncertain. 

Hell, even that adds to his frustration. Why isn't she screaming right back at him? Calling him any names? Nico never hesitated to throw all his energy right back at him, blow for blow, but now?! Now, he makes the mistake of turning and meeting her fully, her thin arms no match for any one of his four, her complete lack of demonic strength, and even the sternness of her gaze that is nothing compared to his own—stops him short. 

With a huff, he throws himself out of the driver's seat and plants himself in the passenger's, where he belongs. 

Nico, to her credit, wordlessly takes the wheel and shifts the van into drive in a few short pulls and twists. It keels easy to her touch, like it knew her as well as a devil arm, like it was hers and hers alone. It made sense, with how much the damn thing fought him. He was never much of a driver in general, but the van was something else entirely. 

For a minute, she just looks at him, long and steadily and more so than either of them ever bothered. He doesn’t meet her gaze completely—he can’t really, for some reason, but it does the trick. Her movements become quicker and firmer as she ramps up the engine and pulls away from the port, not even bothering to wait for the flow-moving figures in the windshield. 

Nero can only breath with a trace of relief as they take off, the others left in the misty chill and darkness behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dunnnnnnnnn (if you even remotely guessed Malphas, damn, high five)
> 
> This is my longest update (6k words exactly) since the first chapter, so I hope there's enough packed in here for everyone! I just wanna note that as someone who just did several bloody palace runs, baphomets/judeccas FUCKING. SUCK. all they do is run away and drive you crazy enough to fuck up. 0/10 would never recommend. so Vergil and Dante having their hands full with a few at once is absolutely possible, at least for the annoyance factor. and Nero getting juked into submission is just becoming a thing for me, so uhh, sorry about that. I hope this is enough surprise and action for now bc we have a lot of emotional stuff to settle, and well, these boys aren't the best at that, but they don't have much of a choice anymore, now do they? 
> 
> I finally have a link to the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5m8A0qqdg0FeW0rBmsYBQS?si=e9Xb87GuS6OyzdUrHHflug) that's been fueling me this whole time, now! these past couple chapters have leaned heavily into "flaws" by Bastille, obviously, but I'd also recommend listening to some of the battle tracks and instrumentals to go with all the action here. (I get especially into Madeon for them, but thats a matter of taste, i know)
> 
> I hope everyone's staying safe out in the actual world? wear those masks, wash your hands, remember that black lives matter and take care of each other, alright? stay tuned bc we're getting super close to the end (like 5ish chapters), now! :D


	13. I would rather forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for some talk(s).

> _Absurd! to think to over-reach the Grave,  
>  _ _And from the wreck of names to rescue ours!  
>  _ _The best concerted schemes men lay for fame  
>  _ _Die fast away; only themselves die faster._

> _The Grave_ , Robert Blair, 1743

 **21 December 8:47 AM | Downtown Red Grave**

It's well after dawn before they find the van. 

Nero and Nico hadn't been too hard to track—Trish and Lady know their typical routes well, and the twins can outright sense Nero. 

But that street goes two ways. 

They can only get within a couple blocks before Dante and Vergil glance in the opposite direction and back at each other. They know. 

Just as the group of devil hunters arrive within visible distance of the van, Nico is screaming at nothing and sprinting down the opposite block. She can only manage to yell out how Nero's taken off, refusing to talk to them, let alone her. And just like that, with the clomping of boots and swishing of dark curls, she chases after her partner into the dawn, leaving the van in their hands. 

There would be relief flooding their veins, if not for the absence of their youngest peers. So they only shuffle inside the abandoned RV, taking their places slowly and quietly as the situation settles in completely. 

It had been a long night, and they were surely in for an even longer day. 

Dante hovers around Trish, not quite meeting her eyes, but not showing his hand very well either. 

"If you need something, just say it," she sighs. 

He's direct. "I need the bike back." 

"What for?" 

He looks at her like she's crazy. "To go after the kid." 

She returns the sentiment. "Did you not just see how that went? What makes you think he won't take off again?" 

"I know how to handle him—" 

"Yeah, that went just fine the last time, uncle dead weight!" Lady snorted. 

The two women sat side-by-side in the front seats, their faces a firm wall built from years of dealing with Dante. Even if their fondness for both the kids wasn't involved, he wouldn't stand a fighting chance in hell. 

"Nico should be able to get through to him well enough," she theorized, and Trish nodded her agreement. 

"So what are we supposed to do?" Dante threw his hands up, showing more energy than he had since the foiled job. "Just let the hag run around with all that hardware?" 

"Malphas put an entire month into outsmarting you and your boy; it won't take much for her to do it again." 

Dante huffed and threw himself back into the couch, the momentum bouncing Vergil up wildly. At his twin's glare, he just shrugged and the both glowered into the sinking leather. 

Trish dragged a hand down her face. 

"Just let them be for a while," Lady added, her gaze going out the window and into Red Grave's towering distance. "It's not like we have any leads to go off of, either." 

"Though we could take this time to find some of our own," Trish moved to the radio phone and started dialing. Lady followed her lead to Nico's stack of demon textbooks in the back. 

Dante and Vergil stayed put. 

"And stop messing around with that!" Lady snapped, snatching Yamato right out of Vergil's white-knuckled grip. 

He just stared at her, utterly aghast, for what felt like eons. Then it melted into a visceral glare that did not sway the huntress at all. 

She trotted over, dumped the sword and _saya_ into the umbrella stand by the door, and stomped away. 

It would have taken Vergil half a step, with his long legs and gait, to snatch it right back, but another murderous glare from Trish nailed in the sentiment. Looking between either of them and his precious sword just made him feel childish, and they had more than enough of that action floating in the van as it is. He didn't feel petty enough to add more to the dark cloud hovering about them. 

For once, he just simply wants to be. For the first time in a month, he doesn't need to be reading or researching. For the first time in over six months, there isn't a fight to be had. For the first time in seven months, he has time to think. And he knows without a shadow of doubt or demon, that he should. 

So he does. 

When Lady and Trish announce their inquiries to Morrison, he doesn't react. When Dante complains of hunger and fetches several meals worth of food, he pays no mind. When Trish and Lady file out the door to scour the city, he does not bid them farewell. Vergil just continues dwelling, even as Red Grave's sky wanes from bright blue back to indigo and pink, until it ceases to color at all. 

* * *

**21 December 10:24 AM | Red Grave Outskirts**

Nero hadn’t been that hard to follow, even for a regular ol’ human like Nico. Guy was so damn loud when he fought, it was a miracle he didn’t wake up the populated half of Red Grave with his yelling. And if that wasn’t clue enough, the distinct smell of the Red Queen’s exhaust always stuck to her nose, fire and smoke reaching out from the air to sock her silly. It was awesome, and she refused to switch it to a cleaner fuel for that reason alone. 

She just settled down to watch him, at first. He didn’t seem to have a destination in mind, otherwise he would’ve gone straight there. No, Nero was just lookin' to burn off some steam, Nico knew, and she was keen to see him fight some more, honestly. Maybe get a new design out of it, or just some scraps. It’s early, she’s not picky, and she knows that he still does his best work alone. 

The first pack of demons he finds are tiny, helpless, and hopeless. There’s not a scrap left for her to even smell afterwards. Even by Nero’s rage standards, it’s bad. Nico almost has to look away. 

The second group last a bit longer, if only because the guy is finally pausing long enough to breathe between swings. He's also seemingly remembered that he does have a gun--a badass one she had _just_ oiled for him only the day before—and mixes it back into his repertoire. 

By the time the third circle of suckers rolls up, she's gone through half a pack and Nero's waiting for the demons to make the first move. It almost seems like he might be finally feelin' a bit tired—but she knows how little that happens. No, it's more like he's starting to feel a rhythm again, a fightin' one, that adds the spring back to his step and his swings as Red Queen sings her bloody song once again. 

_There's_ her lil' bro. 

Nico stands and taps the cinders out into the breeze, just as he finishes off his verse with a no-look cut and a cocky twist of his feet. He returns his sword to his back and examines the empty field of his work, posing a bit. If her glasses aren't foggy, she could swear his cocky grin sat right back at home on his face, but his eyes glance up and whisk it away as soon as he spots her. 

They both freeze. 

For a long time, he just looks at her, like he can't even decide what to do, let alone what to say. She'd be lyin' if she didn't admit she felt the same way. Then he blinks a little and walks right past. She follows, and he doesn't object. 

They settle for a late lunch in silence. 

The little bodega is eerily empty for this part of the city, and the time of year. But maybe that's where the demolished buildings and half-finished construction on the block come in. They seem to have come in during that awkward gap between the lunch rush and earliest commuters. All of it conspires to cull as much airborne awkwardness between the two, bottling it up all around them. Nero takes the lead along with his sandwich as he stalks off towards the nearby park they usually stop in. The park itself is more like the Swiss cheese Nico likes on her tuna melt--holes and hills the perfect size for Qliphoth roots still spot the area, and any new growths have already been reclaimed by winter. A few stubbornly-rooted tress still stand tall, shading the parking lot and a single in-tact table set. 

"Thank god for good sandwiches!" Nico declares, and the half-glum half-annoyed look on Nero's face deflates even her fake energy. 

It's the last thing either of them say to each other for a bit. Nothing but the sound of their chewing and breathing fills the air. 

Nero eats slowly, hardly surely. For all the shit about his dad's refusal to eat with any regularity and his uncle's overindulgence, it tickles a funny bone in Nico's spine to realize that the grandson of Sparda lands somewhere firmly in between. Before this month, she never would have noticed—for the most part, he'd always acted and seemed as human as she! He slept, got up to a house-full of kids, work-friends and a girlfriend, went to work, and came back at the end of the day to do it all again. The only difference was, his job involved throwing himself at demons with a flaming sword and power form. And even that seemed mundane to both of them at this point. But her thoughts, like her sandwich, disappear all-too-quickly, and the pack in her pockets is all she can focus on. 

Nico takes a long, deep drag. She’s usually quiet when she smokes. It calms her down, as she would remind anyone who dare ask. 

But calm is very different from contemplative. 

Nero's brain is anything but. It doesn't matter how much he tries to focus on his sandwich or the crunch of those chips he likes. Even the occasional obnoxious slurp from the slushie that Nico always insists on despite her inability to finish it. Every wire in his mind just insists on short-circuiting every time she glances up and waits for him to _do_ something. 

His lunch is gone, Nico is starting to put her trash away, and he's had enough. 

“Why do you like them so much?” he blurts out. 

“Like who?” 

“My dumbass family.” 

Nico just looks at him like he's grown a fifth arm. It pisses him off even more. 

“I thought you more than anyone else would understand,” he spat. 

She shook her head, her bangs getting caught in her glasses, though she made no move to fix it. “What makes you think I don’t?” 

Nero blanched. “You’re all chummy with the guy that tore off my arm, for starters!” 

“Not all the time," she frowned. 

He rolled his eyes. 

“Nobody said you _have_ to like them,” she shook a finger at him. 

“Well, no.” 

“But nobody said I couldn’t, either.” 

He groaned. He already hated where this was going. 

“Yeah, well, sorry if I thought we had anything in common." 

“Don’tcha see?" Nico pointed her cigarette right at him. "We do, but you’ve got something different now.” 

“Just because my dad was a lot harder to kill than yours doesn’t change anything,” Nero scoffed. 

“But that’s just it!” A light grew in her eyes, like when she had a new idea or joke. As always, it dimmed Nero's defense. “You’ve got another shot with them! And they’re stickin' around!” 

“Is that what you think?” 

“Look, I’d be just as mad at my daddy if he suddenly showed up all un-dead and shit,” she tapped her cig on the table, it’s dying embers floating down to the ground agonizingly slowly. “But I'd wanna pick his brain a bit, y'know? Maybe ask about his research or—w-whatever...” 

Nero is aghast. “You wouldn’t hold him responsible for anything?” 

“Oh, you know I would!” She patted the arm of a Gerbera hanging from the line on Nero’s discarded toolbelt. “This one is for leavin' my momma, that one's for leavin' _me_ , and those are for fuckin' up Fortuna!” 

Nero chuckled at the picture of Nico wielding the Devil Breakers inelegantly, flailing about while yelling curses at her crazed father. Had he done much different when he had fought his own father into submission? It’d felt righteous and validating at the time, but he had no idea how it would’ve looked to an outsider. Knowing Nico, she would’ve laughed too, no matter how serious the situation. That was just her. 

But this fight, between him, the demons, his family—is part of him, too. It's just too damn _frustrating_. 

“But, y'know," she went on, "my uncle never really hated him. Hell, he said he was even gettin' fond of having us all around—one big happy inventin' family!” 

“That must have been something,” Nero can only mutter. Strangely enough, he _can_ picture it. Sparda only knew he had done enough of his own daydreaming as a small, lonely orphan. But Nico didn’t talk much about her childhood. Just crazy stories about her artistry, some smatterings of her uncle’s familiar bumbling, endless praise for the storied grandmother she'd never met. Yet somehow all of it could—and already did _—_ coalesce into something that still managed to nurture her bright spirit and sharp mind. 

“Sure was,” she breathed. “He was probably an ass even then, but Uncle Rock still didn’t wanna talk shit, y'know?” 

Nero just nodded mutely. 

“You have one shot left in that barrel of yours, I figure,” she pointed at Blue Rose, sitting comfortably in the holster on Nero’s hip. With a glance, he saw that she was exactly right. A gunsmith's eye was the only way he could comprehend it. “So you can use it or lose it, because I don’t think that daddy of yours is gonna stick around much longer.” 

“Right.” 

Nico cocked her head, glint in her glasses, and asked him straight-up: "So which one you prefer? A world with ol' daddy-o or not?" 

A hum escapes Nero's chapped lips, blowing a thin cloud of hot breath into the winter air. He hadn't thought about it for long, or even that simply. His life before Vergil, or just Dante, or even Dante and Vergil, had been somewhat the same. Just him, Kyrie, Fortuna's bullshit, and the demons. He'd long ago made his peace with a world without parents or any kind of family history preceding his own. And yet here was not just a couple of knuckleheads who made sense of his own history, but tacked on two-thousand-plus years of it. All of it, ready to be tacked onto his own life like a single, roughed-up puzzle piece. 

The thought is cut off by the roar of an engine. One too loud for human hands, Nico can tell, and Nero can feel the tell-tale pull of it: a devil engine. 

Racing around the corner is none other than Trish and Lady, huddled together on Cavaliere. 

In tandem, Nero and Nico toss their trash and wait in the parking lot as the motorcycle screeches to an elegant stop at their feet. 

"We didn't exactly call for a ride," Nero greeted, his voice and stance cautionary. 

"We're not here to give you one," Trish blanched. 

"Morrison has another lead," Lady told them with seriousness in both colors of her eyes, "if you're ready to hear it." 

Nero brushed past them all, forcing a mask over everything he wore on his face. Just like dear ol' dad had taught him. 

"I'm past ready to be done with this," he told them resolutely. "So let's go." Wings out and ready, he flew up to a low hover. 

"Uh, hello!" Nico called out indignantly. "Aren't you forgetting somethin?" 

"What, _now_ you wanna fly?" he teased with raised eyebrows and an echoing demonic laugh. 

She scoffed and stomped her boots on the pavement. "Not if you ever want me to drive you again!" 

Nero dove down with a scoff and a rush of power, plucking Nico off the ground like a small child. Her screams mixed with revs of demonic power echoing below and whisked them all away. 

* * *

**21 December 5:34 PM | Downtown Red Grave**

The van is dark but for the sour yellow light of its tiny overhead bulbs. Silent in the wake of Nero and Nico’s departure. Emptier without Trish and Lady's playful energy. Only the twins remain. 

Sleep escapes both of them, though they refuse to admit it. Dante, a resident pro of distractions, has his head leisurely focused on a magazine, taking in the layout slowly and rarely turning pages. 

Across from him, his twin in everything but, Vergil aimlessly lingers. Elbows resting on his knees firmly, his hands twist and grip with the need to hold something, even if it’s only his own fingers and the leather of his gloves. In the Yamato’s absence his hands are useless, and it shows. The fact that no book rests even near him is even odder, but his face does little to betray his calm aura. His focus, as usual, rests solely on his brother. 

“You need something to break over there? 'Cause I can let you tear up one of my old issues,” Dante offers with a teasing kit in his voice. 

Vergil allows him a soft chuckle. “I doubt I would find anything of interest in _your_ reading materials.” 

“Could still make for something good to tear. You can’t beat the nice sound of a good magazine paper tear. I always like to save the pull-outs.” 

Another laugh, this time with something that looked like a smile. “I’m sure you do.” He recalled the tasteless posters his brother decorated the office with. Some of them with the gross pride of a teen, others with the gruesome fascination of a horror film enthusiast. All of them reflected Dante, and Vergil knew before he’d looked up through V’s dark curls that he had surely found his brother’s office. 

“I can’t get the kid to look at any of ‘em. Says they’re “obscene” or whatever words that damn cult taught him.” 

Vergil’s fingers stop fidgeting and tighten around his knuckles, his grasp perfectly shaped for the Yamato’s hilt, still missing. 

“He says he always thought it was a crock of shit, but I guess he can’t shake everything they told him.” 

“No. That’s not how indoctrination works.” 

It’s Dante’s turn to pause, studying his brother with a keen fascination usually reserved for their duels. The magazine falls out of his hands and into his lap, irrelevant. 

“How does it work, then?” 

Vergil closes the gap between his fingers, knuckles clenching tightly, protectively, around each other. Yet he goes on: “It would be soothing, at first. Familiar. Take a victim’s guard down before they’re conscious of the fact that they have allowed themselves to become trapped. In Nero’s case, he was born there; he didn't know anything else. There would have never been reason to think he was ever meant to be elsewhere." 

“Until his arm turned into a freakin' demon.” 

"He hasn’t mentioned that to me." 

“You should know, you tore it off.” 

“Yes, but,” he doesn’t want to picture that moment any more—now that he knows those greeting words as genuine, that protective instinct firmly placed, the agonized scream as _his son’s—_ “I wasn’t sure of its origin. I initially assumed him to be a member of the Order who attempted their demonic transformation.” 

Dante just shrugs. “He told me he got injured one time and instead of healing like usual, it started getting scalely and glowy.” 

“Now it’s a part of his demonic form.” 

“That’s what I figured it might be.” 

“Astounding that he managed to partially trigger and keep it permanent on accident. What kind of power...” 

Dante barked out a good chuckle. “Well, ours haven’t exactly been smooth attempts, now have they?” 

Vergil glowered. “If I’d known the Rebellion would awaken your power, I never would have stabbed you with it, certainly.” 

“Yeah, you sure screwed yourself over with that,” the younger twin paused, a thin grin spreading across his gruff face. “Same thing happened when you took the kid’s arm. He woulda never come after you with _half_ the motivation if you hadn’t.” 

Vergil only indulged him with a single scoff. “Well, I’m glad he can find such. You seemed to have trouble finding it yourself, and I walked right up to your feet.” 

“Yeah, well...” 

“Just like you don’t actually need to observe Nero in action. You saw him defeat me, what further proof could you find of his skills?” 

Dante raised his hands up in surrender. It would have been a satisfying sight to Vergil, had it not been so exaggerated. “Ya got me, brother! A guy can’t spend awhile hanging out with the cool kids? I dunno about you, but I’m not in any hurry to get back behind that desk.” He groans, stretching his neck out into the seat. A few audible pops echoed out into a wince. 

“You could have told him such.” 

“And have him get on my ass for being old and lazy again? No thanks. I get enough of that from the ladies.” 

“So prove them wrong. Take care of this job before they can.” 

Dante shakes his head vigorously. And the look on his abnormally stern features tells Vergil he’s absolutely not joking. “This is Nero’s gig. He’d never forgive me if I stole his thunder.” Then a mirthless laugh fell out him. “Hell, he’s still salty about my saving his ass in Fortuna, and neither of us had a choice.” 

Vergil nodded. “His pride matches his strength. I would not blame him if _you_ were his only hope.” 

“Yeah, well, what about you? You spent all this time talking up the Yamato and suddenly it can’t go where you want it to?” 

“Dante,” he warned, teeth gritting already. 

“Hey, I get it if you’re tired too, six months of fighting’ll take it out of anyone—but the kid had Yamato for a while, too. He knows it just as well.” 

“Yamato didn’t get us out of the underworld, if you recall.” 

“But that’s hell, a lotta shit doesn’t make sense there. You can’t tell me it has any limits up here. And the kids’ got a good ear for bs too, so he won’t have it.” 

Vergil's fingers drummed on his knuckles, eyes narrowing but failing to reveal any steel. “Well, well... you said it yourself. Who would want to rest in your pigsty after an eternity in hell? Not I.” 

“You could go anywhere, though. Drop me off and I’m fine. You’ve got time, you’ve got your ugly mug, a sword—what’s stopping ya?" 

“I don’t... know." All the air fell out of the dark slayer's lungs like he hadn't felt, well, ever. His chest and lungs could only echo hollowly, yet still kept the firm appearance of his broad shoulders and strong arms. "I fulfilled my last purpose. Currently there are no goals to feed my motivation, so I supposed traveling even in these quarters would provide some opportunity to... assess." 

Dante's eyes blew out wide, like he had when Sparda ever showed them new weapons in their youth. “All that effort to save yourself and gain power and all you end up with is a mid-life crisis!” His laugh was loud and echoed, as joyous as Vergil had heard it in hell. “Oh, brother, you are full of surprises!” 

“Enough,” he bit out, leaping off the seat. “I won’t have your mocking in the face of serious matters.” 

“C'mon, Vergil, it’s no big deal! You’re on a life-changing field trip! It’s been fun, huh?” 

He paused but did not turn, instead deciding to pour all his attention into the messy stack of magazines and books on a shelf. Such poor conditions they were left in, though he had half a mind to just tear the magazines up like Dante liked. They were in need. 

“It’s just as you said. This is Nero’s job. We promised him our company. I’ll see this through and then reevaluate my options.” 

A scoff sounded out behind him but again he refused to give his little brother any more attention. It was the last thing he needed or deserved, the sly bastard. For all Dante complained of using his head and thinking things through, the man had gotten more astute since their last encounter, whether either of them liked it or not. Perhaps it came with old age, experience. They both had spent so much time apart, even half a year constantly at each other’s side couldn’t reveal all of it. 

“That’s fine. But you don’t have to make up excuses to hang out with your own son, y’know. I have jobs and clients and stuff, but you can just stick around. Do dad things.” 

“And you would know this, how?” 

He smirked that dastardly wide smile. “I don’t. Just been bs-ing this whole time. I figured he didn’t need anyone hovering over him, so I sent him a sign and let him do his own thing for a few years. It’s worked out okay.” 

“That is about as far from paternal as you could get, Dante.” 

“Course, I’m just the uncle! It woulda been weird if I tried to dad him too much, huh? That’s why I didn’t tell him anything—didn’t want him to start thinking that he should act like me or whatnot.” 

Now it’s Vergil’s turn to scoff. What a ridiculous notion. He actually had pity for whichever poor soul ever earned Dante as a father. 

But how much pity had Nero earned having him for one? He doesn’t dare think it. Somewhere out there, his son is lashing out and he sits here doing nothing. Wouldn’t a father chase after him? Hadn’t his father tried to be present when he could? The recesses of his memories couldn't quite recall. But then, Sparda had never appeared when they needed him most, and it had cost them everything. 

If he leaves Nero now... there could be worse that they would both regret. 

Isn’t that what his son had claimed, when he forced them apart at the top of the Qliphoth? To break their cycle of violence? He had done it, to a degree. But what use was that if another cycle replaced it? One where they abandoned each other in their hour of need? 

Vergil does not wish to see another world where he has failed. This is his cycle to break; one only a father can fix. 

Whether or not he actually resembled any sort of father through it all, was solely up to Nero to decide. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about skipping a week! i thought i was only gonna post one little piece for dadgil week and come right back to this the next week, only to wind up writing 10k words in 3 days! needless to say, i burned myself out a little, so I let myself and the crew rest a bit for this chapter lol. the fics i posted are called [open seams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938638) (a post-dmc5 oneshot) and [try, try again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24942718) (a baby nero au) so depending on the flavor of dadgil you're feeling like, I covered two!
> 
> this chapter really relies on "twin skeletons" by FOB, bc i especially like to think of the "hotel in NYC" line as "there's a room in a house in red grave city..." y'know, just to make myself sadder and angstier :,))))))))) its still too early for a full-on resolution yet, but we're getting there! i still get so anxious writing bc I'm afraid i'll forget some crucial detail fromt he beginning, and we're so close to the end i won't wanna mess it up, but I REALLY like what's due to come up, so i'm hoping if anything, those part shine through :)
> 
> thanks again for reading and see you again soon! still on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/auraofdawn) for some reason lol


	14. wash my memory clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end is nigh. Nero could really use some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fought with myself and these words so much, and then sad brain punched me in the face again, so. idk. let me know what you think of this one bc i've been mad at it for so long i don't even remember what it feels like to like my own writing ://///

> _Strange things, the_ _neighbours_ _say, have_ _happen’d_ _here._   
>  _Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs;_   
>  _Dead men have come again, and_ _walk’d_ _about;_   
>  _And the great bell has_ _toll’d_ _,_ _unrung_ _,_ _untouch’d_ _!_   
>  \-- _The Grave_ , Robert Blair, 1743

**21 December 6:28 PM | Downtown Red Grave**

The sight of rapidly blinking neon and foggy grates should have been familiar to them. But the convergence of those blurry lights with towering skyscrapers in varying states of disarray, with sleek-looking cars on the side, was sight typically unseen in Capulet. And the sheer number of either, alongside the humans willing to be seen in both weather and darkness of this seedier side of town. If Nero were to call it anything, he'd christen it old meeting new in the armpit of the city. 

Instead, he crinkled his nose up something fierce. "God, it stinks worse here than at Dante's." 

"You want the big city, you get big stink," Nico snorted. 

"Morrison mentioned he was in town for the holidays," Trish provided, even as her own nose twitched uncomfortably. 

"Oh," Nero blinked. The "reason for the season" had totally eluded him amidst all this crap. Fortuna celebrated a more Sparda-themed version, for what he suspected was merely a bad attempt to prevent their own parishioners from feeling left out. He didn't really mind; it usually made for a nice occasion with Kyrie and the orphans, plus an end of the year break from their busy lives. 

"I can't imagine he's actually staying in this place," Lady murmured. 

A collective shrug passed through the group as they kept on, down the stoop and into yet another dive bar. Its walls dark and aged like the oldest sections of the city. Nero instinctively thought his uncle would be right at home here, so of course his circle runs right through it. Morrison sits awaiting them in a dim booth in the back, a cloud of cigar smoke greeting them with its revolting musk. 

Nero can't fan the air fast enough. 

"You're gonna have to get used to that smell eventually, kiddo," the broker smirked while Nico snickered. 

Nero scoffed as he sat. "Never." 

A cough-laugh erupted from Morrison. Absently, Nero wondered how a man of his age smoking as frequently as Nico was even still alive, but there was no time. only business, and pressing more and more at his fine-tuned nerves. 

"Well," Lady pressed him, sliding into the seat with Trish at her flank. "Are you gonna tell us what you found, or are you chargin' by the hour now?" 

The man tapped his cigar out, its embers falling slowly into the ashtray as the smoke dissipated. 

"Hey, I'm not any happier about this charade than you lot are," he finally said. "That witch just cost me a good cut." 

"Is that all you care about?" Nero barked, all the air in the place rising with his temper. "A demon made off with most powerful gun in the underworld and you complain about money?!" 

Morrison just waved him down. "Just sit, kid." 

"I'm not—!" he stopped himself before he could finish the cliché, but also in part to Nico's elbow at his side and both female hunters looking at him guardedly. It felt just like being in the van again, tumbling down the length of the crumbling Qliphoth root, right after V had truly revealed himself. His nerves filled with a venom that fought to be freed from beneath his skin, clawing at every bit of self-control he'd spent the last six-ish years building up. Blowing up here wouldn't drag Malphas back by her hair, and pissing off their source would rob them of them chance. 

He sat back in a lump and sighed. "I just wanna know when and where I can kick all three of her faces in." 

Morrison nodded and reached for another huff. "Now _that's_ business." 

"You said you knew who the idiots she used were," Trish began, eyeing the man critically. 

He inhaled. "I knew before you even explained," exhale. "Nameless, desperate cowards. Why do you think they hired you when they couldn't find any devil arms themselves?" 

The wave of smoke choked out any laughter that would have erupted from them. Nico still let a chuckle loose, somehow. 

"Folks like that always act like they _could_ be hunters, but they never get the job done—if they don't get themselves killed first." 

That got a fond series of chuckles out of Lady and Trish. They had certainly seen their fill of the type he described—and they halfway treated Dante like he was one of them. 

"She used all that junk to lure demons, right? Just to distract you? Tire you out?" 

"It won't work again," Nero seethed. 

"'Course not," Morrison agreed, twirling his cigar about. "So what can she do with the ones she took from you?" 

"Open as many portals to hell as she wants, for starters. Call forth her own personal army like the queen of hell." 

Nero let out an inward scoff. As if the current king of hell would let that happen. 

Morrison leaned forward, his cigar and the ashtray forgotten. "I've been hearing rumblings for a week or so now. That the city's got somethin' brewing, just like it did before the damn tree sprung up." 

"We know for sure she can't call up another Qliphoth," Trish confirmed, but her eyes met the other hunters' all resolutely. 

"But that won't stop her from trying to do the next best thing," Lady clarified. 

Morrison just nodded, his fingers drumming on the table. 

"Do you know anything about when and where, exactly?" Nero desperately asked. 

"Old town might be your best bet," The broker could only shake his head, "plenty of demons already there." 

The young devil hunter fell back into the vinyl seat with a heavy slap. 

Nico stole a light from Morrison, her own voice becoming thick with smoke even as she grinned madly. "Hey, as long as she stays in the city, I can get us there!" 

Nero demurred, but he wouldn't dull her enthusiasm. Not right now. They had just gotten back to a good place, but now they can't even go anywhere with it. 

"We just have to be on guard," he resolved, meeting each set of eyes around the table in turn. "See through all of Malphas' tricks before she can turn them on us again." 

Morrison cough-laughed again, his deep bass rumbling throughout the bar in tune with the clouds of smoke. "For the sake of this poor city and my holiday, I hope you can, kid."   


* * *

**21 December 7:52 PM | Red Grave**

The way back to the van is quiet, save for Nico's complaining at Nero's flying. Again. Trish and Lady insisted the youths go on ahead while they went on the hunt for some takeout, and he was caught up in his own thoughts enough to agree. 

Only as soon as Nico shakes free from his grasp and their feet land firmly on the ground does he stop. Standing right outside the van--his van, that he bought and fixed with his own money and hard work, plus whatever hands Nico felt like lending, he can't go in. Even with his devil trigger dissipating into bright sparks of blue and white, his senses are alight, burning like a roaring bonfire this close to two powerful demons, awaiting him right inside. 

Of course, Nico just walks up and opens the door like nothing. It even slams back shut for a long minute, staring down at him in the dark. But she's back as quickly as she was gone, swinging back out on the door handle, her brows a crinkled mix of confusion and mockery. 

"Well?" she goaded him. 

Nero grit his teeth and rushed past her. 

The van is just how they left it: yellowed, messy, and awkwardly quiet. Dante basks on the couch in the midst of a nap while Vergil sits directly across from him, his head down and his eyes averted away. Nero couldn't tell whether that was on purpose or not. He quickly decided he didn't wanna know. 

His nerves still thrumming, his fingers are as twitchy as they would be with Gerbera's sparks charging within his arm. So he goes straight towards Nico's workbench and the unfinished breakers she has lying around. Anything to busy his hands and mind from... everything, really. But his busy mind refuses to cooperate with his nerves, and a Tomboy slips free from his grasp and shatters on the floor. 

"Watch the merchandise!" Nico barked, though she made no move to charge at him. 

Dante picked then to perk up suddenly, bright blue eyes looking right through Nero, like they had only three times before. 

Vergil's gaze strayed away, and Yamato remained tucked in the umbrella stand. 

"So!" he began with his trademark sing-song-y voice, "What'd Morrison have to say?" 

"Nothing we didn't already know," Nero mumbled. 

But his uncle's tone didn't dip at all. "Really?" 

Nero could only hide behind a shrug. 

"A guy like him only stays in business as long as he has 'cause he's got his pulse on everything." 

"Yeah, well, a guy like him can't exactly report from hell, now can he? Besides, he said he was on holiday." 

"Oh, yeah," Dante scratched the back of his head, gaze settling on the slumped blue form in front of him. "I always forget this time of year." 

A stinging silence stretched between the trio of white-haired heads, from the back of the van all the way to the front. 

"We don't really do much at home," Nero finally demurred, an ache starting in his chest again, "but I still wanna get back to see some of it." 

"Hey, we'll get you home before you know it, kid." 

"Whatever you say, old man." 

Vergil's head dipped back up, darted between Dante and Nero, and fell back down. 

Sooner than later, Lady and Trish wordlessly hand out the food, though Nero can't bring himself to take much. He's much more distracted by the sight of Vergil actually taking something, even if it's just a dinner roll. 

As they eat, they talk of little besides the job. 

"You think Malphas meant what she said?" Nero wondered. "That she's taking the city back?" 

"I don't know why would she even bother." Trish shrugged. "Half of its still a mess, and it's still half-empty." 

"Where did you find her the first time?" Lady added through chews. "In the Qlipoth, right?" 

Nero nodded. "As deep as you could go without being in hell. It didn't even look like a tree anymore... it was so dark, and creepy." 

"A witch like Malphas would likely surround a den of hers with wards and traps," Trish explained. "So any ritual she's planning could be uninterrupted." 

Lady perked up with an idea, and a bite of fried fish. "If she's planning some kind of big thing, we should have time to stop her before it starts." 

"She sure didn't seem like much when we fought," Dante scoffed in between bites. 

"Considering she sent a crew of idiots to do her dirty work for her," Lady scoffed. 

"And we're some of those idiots," Nero grumbled. The ladies looked aghast at him, dropping their plates and their jaws. 

"Nero—" Trish started. 

"—don't," Lady continued. 

"It's true, alright?" he snapped. "I'm not gonna lie to myself anymore." 

The hunters' faces all fell, nothing but the sound of chewing and plastic utensils punctuating the van's stuffy atmosphere. They ceded their chatting to Nero, and he could only regard his lack of a dinner with resignation. 

"Whatever ritual she performs would be most effective where the barrier between worlds is already thin." 

Nero's head flew up, eyes going wild as he clambered to find the nasally voice belonging to none other than his father. "And where is that?" 

Vergil and Dante shared a quick, but silent glance at each other and then back. 

Finally, father faced son fully, and spoke: "At the house." 

* * *

**22 December | Old Red Grave**

The crater is just as the day they'd left it. Not even the most daring or stubborn of citizens could be bothered to even begin clean-up. Nero could blame them least of all: Fortuna's fate had long-mirrored this scene. Bits of the hellgate still stood tall amongst the cleared and rebuilt sections of town, and would remain still until they could amass enough manpower to drill them into dust. Similarly, Red Grave would allow the area to remain until they found the means to fill it and rebuild. Just by the size of it, that time could still be years, if not decades to come. 

Yet, Nero finds a grim shred of relief; if even a soul were close enough to be harmed, he'd be all the more anxious. It was one thing he still has trouble dealing with: any innocent soul in danger always held the power to set him off, with nary a thing that his conscious could do but go along for the ride. 

But it's still far too quiet. and he hates quiet. Its why he invested in wireless headphones and a jukebox. All they can do is wait and stand ready and try not to look like idiots again. 

_Easier said than done._

There are certainly demons aplenty to be found in the former site of the Qliphoth. They come and go like the wind; from nowhere, and then annoyingly unmissable. But none are of the number or ferocity of those that had attacked them at the port. It doesn't take a professional devil hunter to see that these are just wanderers, stragglers of the demon tree itself. Any and all traces of a demonic witch or her army are nowhere to be found, as of yet. 

They can only really come and go in pairs, so they do, as the hours pass. Nico makes the suggestion that Nero pair up with his father exactly once, but neither of them even deign to glare at her, let alone each other. If he can get through this without blowing up at the man again, it would be the best possible ending. 

None of his fellow hunters try to challenge the youngest devil hunter again, even as his rage burns low. 

Dante huffs, loudly and not unlike the children Nero spent half his time around. "We can't just wait around forever like this." 

"What else do you suggest we do?" his nephew retorted. 

"You could get your old man to tear hell open again and go after her." 

"Oh, you're just dying to run off again, huh?" 

The man's eyes went wide as he furiously shook his head. "C'mon, you know that's not what I--" 

"This is the only lead we have and I'm gonna stick to it, " Nero hissed. "You can do whatever the hell you want." 

Dante stared at the back of his nephew, while his coat billowed angrily behind him as he marched away, and shook his head. He could only lean back on the wheel of the van, sigh, and continue his watch. 

The day passes without another incident. 

* * *

  
**23 December 9:25 AM | Old Red Grave**

Nero has not slept. 

It's not for lack of trying, by everyone else, at least. Every watch he took, one of the ladies offered to take for him, or extend their own. When even Dante tries to lull him to sleep with some surprisingly soothing guitar on the jukebox, he doubles down on his caffeine intake. Already, Nico complained that they spent too much money and cupboard space on coffee and energy drinks, like she wasn't at least half-responsible. But he's gone through a couple weeks' worth of it in just the past couple days. He'll pay for it later, literally, he knows, but he can't stop even if really wants to. 

He will finish this job, one way or another, payday or not. 

Trish and Lady rise and mingle like nothing is wrong. not a darkened circle under their eyes or a hair out place from any other day. Consciously, Nero knows it's because they're seasoned vets, and if they survived the Qliphoth, they can sure as hell survive this. But that unreasonable part of his brain twitches out of sync, snarling at the gall of them to be so calm by the countless possibilities of Malphas' plan. How could they act like it was another Tuesday morning? Weren't they worried at all? 

But then Lady is right there, her hand gently shaking him free from thought, letting him know that they're going out to grab breakfast for everyone. 

Nero can only manage a nod in response. 

The pair accept it with small nods and smiles. 

Okay, maybe he's being a bit of an ass. At this point he could take his pick of anything to blame: his family, his demonic side, his caffeine. It's probably a sick mix of all three, but he finds it easier to look at Dante's foolish face and Vergil's empty stare and pin everything on them. That was what family was really for, right? To take the fall? To share the shame? 

What he would give for some better examples to follow. 

The phone picks that moment to ring, stirring him from his sulking and fatigue. 

But Nico's fingers, honed by years of twisting and scratching and grease, are much faster. Her wild grin only widens as she waggles her eyebrows at him without shame. Nero doesn't wanna give her the satisfaction of even a glower, but he can't help the way his face falls. 

The speaker only lays against her ear for a second before she pulls its away with glee to shout: "Hey, its Kyrie!" 

A spark of electricity passes through Nero's chest, kick-starting his irregular pulse. And he knew for a fact that Trish was nowhere near. 

Still, he wasn't _that_ easy. The orphanage had taught him better. "I'm not fallin' for it, Nico." 

She stuck out her bottom lip at him and hummed, putting the phone back to her ear. Whatever was being said, however, didn't play into her plan, apparently. Quickly, but gradually, the mocking smirk melted right off her sunny face, even as the high morning sun moved away from her cheeks. 

"No, man, you really need to hear this." 

"I swear, if you're just messing around again—" 

She shoved the phone right through his hands and onto his ear, the first word freezing him more solidly than a Frost on the winter solstice: 

"Nero?!" 

His jaw gaped open so wide it nearly stole the gasp right from his lungs. "K-kyrie?" 

"Nero, there's demons!" 

"Where?" 

"The orphanage," she cut out, a light scuffling taking over in the background. "The kids had been talking about them all morning, but the matrons brushed them off." 

A painful SCREECH suddenly overpowered the line, giving Nero another heart attack. Nico even leaped away and held her ears in pain, but the ghastly look on her face was the same as his. The scratching echoed again and Nero's pulse slowed as he told himself it couldn't be some new kind of screaming demon. 

Kyrie's voice re-entered the call with a sigh, exhaustion dragging down her usually light tone. "We just finished barricading all the doors." 

Nero's echoing sigh struggled in vain to retain the air that kept leaving his lungs, a burning account for the swirl of emotions that fought with his human needs to survive. He could barely recall how to close his mouth as he desperately went down the checklist in his mind; Kyrie had already done steps one and two, thank god. 

"Is everyone accounted for?" he asked. 

"Yes, yes," she assured him. "Nothing's tried to get in, thank goodness, but something definitely tried to charge the younger kids." 

Nero bit down on his lip to prevent the image from manifesting in his mind. "Was it alone?" 

"No, not if what they saw all morning was more of them." 

"Okay, I'll be right there." 

"Nero, aren't you still in the city?" her voice went up a lit. A note, or an octave, she would've corrected him, if they were going over her sheet music again, like he loved to, like they _would have been_ , had all this shit not been stirred up. "It'll be dark before you can get back, and if you've still got that job, then—" 

"If there's demons after you and the kids, then I'm there; doesn't matter when or where," he breathed out in a rush, telling himself more than her, really. But it felt better to say it, like he wasn't just running on coffee and gum, but strength and determination. Suddenly, he could feel the fire in veins being newly fed and hungry for more. And where there were demons to provide more fuel, he would be. 

Kyrie's dreamy sigh rooted him back to earth, gently as usual. "I know. Please be careful." 

" _Always_." 

The call doesn't even cut out before he throws it back to Nico and she sets it down, and he's already gone. The calm of her aura can only last so long, and he rushes outside and sinks into a squat on the ground, limbs boneless. 

"Kid, what is it?" Dante asks with his typical high lit, but it vanishes as he rushes to Nero's level. "Nero?" he asks again, his hand hovering about his shoulder, but his nephew flinches away. 

"There's demons..." he began. 

"Where?" 

"Back home! After Kyrie and the kids!" 

Dante curses. 

Nero’s heart races. 

"You don't think..." Dante started, double-taking between the Qliphoth's gaping crater and back. 

"Think what?" 

"It can't be Malphas, can it?" 

Nero cursed and buried his head into his arms and his hood. 

"They’re not supposed to be there... we’re hours away!” 

Dante slams his sword into the pavement, the cracking sending a slight tremor through the block. He leans into the scabbard, cursing under his breath and shaking his head. 

“Your guess is as good as mine, kid.” 

But Nero is already pacing, hands curled into his short hair, pulling at his brain to _think_ rather than let his fists ball for a fight that isn’t here. “Can Trish and Lady get there quicker?” 

“Get where?” A female voice perks up from the block behind them, and Nero feels all of the air fall out of his shoulders. 

Trish and Lady share a worried glance as they jog up to the group with grocery bags in hand, the worry in the air obvious from further out. “What’s going on?” 

Dante stepped forward, years of business leveling out his voice and his shoulders. “The kid’s girl called; there’s trouble in her neck of the woods.” 

Lady nearly dropped the bags right from her hands. “But we can't just leave!” 

“Yes, we can!” 

Trish reached out for his shoulder, but he backed away before she could make contact. “Nero, you know we want to help Kyrie and the city, but with how far we are, and what’s going on here—“ 

“No, guys, it’s fine,” he’s on his knees, blood running cold and aches starting in his head, but if he doesn’t move soon, he’s going to combust. “I can go alone.” 

The chorus of protest could not have been louder. Dante is throwing his hands up. Lady is aiming Kalina Ann at his chest. Trish has an alarming number of sparks ready to jump off her fingers. Nico is literally in his face, swapping between yelling and pleading with him. 

“I did it once, I can do it again.” His face remains stony, his lips thin, his jaw set. 

“You said Fortuna, correct?” 

The voice startles him and everyone else into silence. Leaning against the van, Yamato’s strings twisted in his grasp, is Vergil. 

Nero can only nod. 

His father returns it and, in another move, smoothly unsheathes Yamato and slashes the air in two quick strokes. Nero can feel the air and gravity shift unnaturally as reality itself tears before him, unleashing a blast of wind where there was none before. Vergil only turns and looks at him, waiting. 

The chorus erupts again, this time all anger directed at Vergil and his unflinching glare. Amidst all of them, Dante steps between father and son, looking to Nero. 

“You shouldn’t do this alone.” 

The young devil hunter gives pause, taking his uncle’s rare earnestness to heart. He doesn’t want to go, really, but does he have a choice? Not with Kyrie, hell no. 

“Of course not,” Vergil retorts. “I’m going with him.” 

Nero’s jaw actually hangs open. Dante, somehow, holds it together. 

“Why not make it a family affair?” The bastard chortles with a spark in his eye. 

Vergil shakes his head. “You must stay here and keep this effort on track. We’ll be back shortly, if not to save your pathetic hide, then to collect your corpse.” 

“I knew you had faith in me, big brother!” The man yelps and backs away, waving off the cavalry that waits for Nero’s move. He knows they all wouldn’t flinch to tackle his father—or himself, if they really thought he was committing suicide—and the thought alone assured him. They would be fine—at least they could hold their own for a while. 

They’d all learned a lot from Urizen, regrettably. He’d learned a lot from V. Vergil was still learning from him. Nero hopes to keep it that way. 

They shared another nod and father allowed son to enter the portal first, completely disappearing from sight. Vergil turned and caught enough of Dante’s steady eyes before he broke contact and stepped through, the tear in reality closing quickly behind him. One smirked and the other rolled identical blue eyes. 

Father and son stepped from nowhere onto the streets of Fortuna City, where it all began. 

* * *

**23 December 10:04 AM | Fortuna City Center**

This street is where it all started, Vergil slowly realizes. So much is the same; so much is different, but only slightly so. The streets remain pristine in their olden stone work and fine-crafted metalsmithing. He remembered how at ease the Gothic architecture had made him upon first glance; it carried the kind of simple elegance he admired, it reminded him of home, it had caused him to let his guard down, eventually. Too much so, he now knew. 

In the center of the road, framed in the finely shining midday sun, was the elegant dome of the opera house. In his day, every boatman and tourism agent had badgered Vergil to visit the esteemed landmark, as if he were there for any other sort of visit. Even when his research on his father and the Order of the Sword had reluctantly led him there, he was only met with hooded clergymen claiming that the space was under renovation and closed to the public. 

Upon a non-public visit, he found little of interest. Perhaps he should have looked closer, he now thought as he observed Nero desperately punching numbers into the closest pay phone. 

“She said she was at the orphanage,” he mumbled, “but there’s no answer now.” 

“Perhaps the phone lines are being overwhelmed,” Vergil offered. Fortuna was even older than Red Grave; he recalled how averse they were to modern technology even in his own youth. It had been a miracle to find a long-distance line then, let alone a vast local network. 

“Or worse,” Nero’s breath was already desperately clipped. He was losing control fast, Vergil felt especially at a loss for what could possibly calm the boy down. 

In the distance, barely obscured by the cathedral, were thin plumes of dark smoke, steadily rising. Nero didn’t bother to spare a look to his father before taking off at full speed, his jacket flaring out behind him like the parachute of a drag racer, but failing to slow him down. 

Vergil sighed and started after his son. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this was the very first scene I wrote! It was forming a shell around it that was the hard part, otherwise I would’ve just posted it as a drabble or something lol. Writing things out of order is actually hard tho and I do NOT recommend it! 
> 
> its christmas in july! which is ironically around when i started posting this, so its kind of full circle?
> 
> I should note there will NOT be an update the weekend of the 7th because I'll be out of town, and then my birthday is the week after, so it could be a bit before I find the chance to post again, rather than my usual writing anxiety :////


	15. there's no room for you here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero and Vergil begin to investigate Fortuna, alongside a few other issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is over 5k AND we open with some serious father-son angst, so I hope that starts to make up for the sudden hiatus? maybe??

> _I beg of you,_   
> _do not walk by_   
> _without pausing_   
> _to attend to this_   
> _rather ridiculous performance._   
> \- Invitation, Mary Oliver 

**23 December 10:48 AM | Fortuna**

For a moment, it's like he's nineteen again. 

Fortuna's familiar wind rushes through his hair, smelling of sea salt and candle smoke, except his bangs are gone and nary a hair even brushes his ears anymore. The weight jingling on his belt and crashing into his legs isn't just Blue Rose, but an array of Devil Breakers. Still, the heavy clacking on centuries-old cobblestone rattles his hearing as loudly as ever, and he's not about to let the beat falter. Not with the city at stake, again. 

_"Nero."_

The voice is entirely new, though. 

It's not even close to Kyrie's high melody, or the echoing chaos of the kids, nor the gravely nagging from the nuns. If he had to pick a tone, it'd be closest to Credo's low, clipped growl. 

_"Nero!"_

Instinctively his shoulders tense and his boots skid against the ground, stopping smack in the middle of the street. At the call of his father, his nerves still want to freeze. Yet the other half of himself instinctively wants to disobey. 

Close behind, but far from stepping on his heels, is Vergil. He's certainly the one person Nero never expected to see, here or otherwise. The man sticks out like a sore thumb amidst the town's warm ivory stone and weathered brown brick. Hues of navy and turquoise, cold as the face of the man who bore them, contrast starkly in the morning light. His dark coat is whipped angrily by the ocean air, all three coattails longer than any of the holy knights' uniforms would ever dare, yet Vergil does not run. It just dawns on Nero: he's never even _seen_ the man briskly jog, let alone sprint like the rest of them had been for the past three weeks. Does he simply refuse, or is it out of habit? 

Whatever the reason, Nero thinks, it can only be ridiculous, just like the rest of his father's traits. And what must they look like, to the average Fortunan? There aren't many out at this time of day—no doubt the upcoming holiday is keeping many gathered at home, with their families. Whatever's happening hasn't disturbed the status quo enough to steer anyone off their routine. If it weren't for Kyrie's call, he couldn't tell of anything afoot, brewing beneath the surface. Just like last time. 

But unlike last time, he knows how to wait. For a bit. So he'll stop as Vergil approaches, as quiet and calm as ever. 

A part of him wants to send the volley right back; turn those pesky familial instincts back on the man who should've been more affected by them. The thought's been wormed in his mind for a while, for as long as he's known he has a living father. Like the cold silence between them, it demands a place at the forefront of his thoughts. 

It rolls off his tongue so easily, so casually, just like the nature of his uncle. 

"So, how much do you remember?" 

Vergil's eyes dart towards him with alarming speed that screeches to a halt just as his walk does. But the rest of his stilted frame doesn't budge. "Only pieces," he concedes, "I wasn't here for long." 

Nero's brain autofills a lewd joke where Nico surely would have placed it, but he settles for massaging his temples. 

"I take it you don't know where the orphanage is, then." 

Silence. The man gives up only a slight lean of his chin. 

Well, they definitely aren't teleporting the rest of the way. At least it wasn't that far. But still, every step, every sound emerges as a grate on his already-heightened nerves. Each one could have been a demon, or Kyrie's shriek, but he wouldn't know until he could see her for himself. So the young devil hunter continues forward, one last check over his shoulder to find his father following slightly closer as they settle into a brisk pace. 

"...Dante said you've spent your entire life here," Vergil says, so low that his son almost misses it. 

Its Nero's turn to freeze, and he has to force his legs to keep moving, his gaze forward, though both want to stop and gape wide-eyed at his father. But there's still blocks to go, and the chilling quiet of Fortuna's streets would drive them both battier than they could with their swords. 

"Yup." 

"And you had no idea of your heritage? 

"Not... exactly," he mumbles. He didn't wanna give the whole sob story—he'd had enough lip from V when the guy simply knew him as the kid who'd had his arm torn off—but there were certainly important bits and pieces scattered around himself and the island. Rumors and seeds planted by the very man at his right, whether he had meant to or not. 

Immediately, Nero thinks: _there's no time._ This _definitely_ isn't the place, and yet... 

He actually _wants_ to talk. Its already been weeks, and who knows when they'll get a chance as good as this—alone—again? 

A long sigh escapes his lungs as he thinks of an abridged version. "I just learned how to hunt demons, and I was really good at it." If the bastard tried to challenge him again, he'd be more than ready to demonstrate just how good. Then he rubbed his right arm, light enough to scratch, but so mindlessly it didn't register in his wild-ass nerves. "It wasn't a big deal... and then, it got _really_ fucking obvious." 

"How did you discover your power, then?" 

Nero blanches. When he told Nico the whole thing, because of her dad, she'd yelled at him for taking so long to get to the 'good' part. And then she _really_ let him have it for making shit up, because there was 'no need' to get all 'dramatic' about Kyrie, or the Angelos, or the feeling of unfiltered power flowing through his veins for the first time ever. 

So Nero just shrugs. "I needed more power to protect people. So I used it." 

It's as simple as that to him, and surely as simple as his father cares to know. It keeps him moving forward, towards those that need him right now, and whoever decides to help could just try to keep pace. 

But there's a gaping silence growing at his side, empty and blank where a frowning man in blue should have been. Instead, Vergil stands half a block back, his eyes and body language all focused upon one thing: 

Yamato. 

"You restored it," he realizes. 

Nero nods. "I did." 

"You wouldn't have just given it to me. And I was in no condition to fight." 

"No," Nero cuts out, huffing into his shoulders and jacket. He wants to tug his hood over his head, yet he also has no idea what to do with his hands, so they stay stuffed into his pockets, fists balled tightly. "But you could have _said_ something." 

"What?" 

" _Anything!_ " 

Vergil blanches. "I had no idea that you even knew Dante, let alone your true bloodline. All I knew was the pull of the Yamato and my own failing health." 

"Yeah, nothing but dust and bones, but you still yanked an arm off like it was nothin?" Nero scoffed. "Excuse me if I find that a bit hard to believe!" 

"You justified your own power, and I justified mine." 

"That's not the same thing!" 

Vergil pins him down without Yamato, or summoned swords, or even hand or foot. That razor-sharp glance is all he needs to stop his son right where he stands. 

"Why discount the ability you had to survive?” he counters easily, deliberately. “A human would have been content to die; yet you had enough demon left to sustain you." 

Nero's words catch and garble at each other in their scramble to burst out and scream curses at his father. And to think, for all the damage the Order did, they still believed that Sparda admired humans. Yet, the guy's own firstborn couldn't give less of a _shit_ about them!

He takes a deep breath, to plant himself and his words as plainly as possible. 

" _S_ _till_ discounting humans, huh? They're not the greatest, but when I was nothing but a baby dropped on a doorstep, humans took care of me. They gave me a name, they taught me how to fight, how to live. What have demons ever done except try to kill me? Without humans, I’d literally be nothing. Without demons, I’m good. So you tell me which one is worth more." 

Vergil hums in that affirmative way; one that means he's _actually_ thinking. Nero's made him stop and think, not for the first time, each one a larger victory than the last. Every passing second of his father's wordlessness is one that the youngest Sparda knows to savor, and boy does he ever. 

"A well-supported argument," the man finally admits. "One could still argue." 

"That demons are still stronger!?" 

"That demons do not know human traits. Sparda himself was one-of-a-kind." 

For all his brief victory is worth, Nero feels his throat dry up, trying to take all his words and curiosity with it. But still, he knows he needs to claw every word he can out of this man, or he might not get another chance. 

"What does that make us, then? 

Vergil pauses for the longest second. "Something neither human or demon can fully comprehend." 

Nero shook his head. Leave it to his own dad to bring everything back to the legendary dark knight's "awesome" power. He would've fit right in around town, but that's not something he's about to let himself dwell on. 

"Y'know, I would’ve believed every single lie these people tried to sell me," he scoffs, "before I ever believed that Sparda was my _grandfather_.” 

That got the _tiniest_ curl of a smirk out of his father. “Yes, well, the truth can be stranger than any lie.” 

Nero almost laughs. "You're tellin' _me_." 

* * *

**23 December 11:25AM | Old Red Grave**

It's all too easy to lose Dante in the heat of battle. Add a dense horde of demons to the speed of a man who was slow to answer the phone but quick to turn a fight into his personal dance floor, and what do you get? _Red_. From the shades of his coat, his circle of swords, to a slew of blood and debris alike, and the legendary demon hunter often just appeared as a monochromatic agent of destruction. In that sense, this fight is no different, and Dante swings his summoned swords about, the shadows on the ground shattering like the icicles formed at the top of Red Grave's oldest wrought iron posts. And the demons fall alongside them, like the snow that threatens to fall from darkening clouds. 

The flow of the horde had slowed since his nephew and brother's departure, and distraction was getting harder and harder to come by. Lady and Trish themselves don't see the point in even bothering. At least, with these run-of-the-mill types. They lean into each other comfortably on the warped remains of a wrought iron bench. Nico leisurely strolls around their flank, nursing her latest smoke. 

"I take it you're not worried," Trish says with a smirk. 

Dante stops and shakes the blood and hair free from his ears. "About what?" 

"Nero and Vergil." 

"Nope," he chirps casually. Not a single hitch could be heard, as both ladies know the full range of his voice well. As close as they are to the Qliphoth's original root, they're a long way from the man who'd done every earthly thing possible to keep his brother and nephew apart. Now that the threat is as lowly as the demons in the neighborhood, his mood is like water off a duck's back, and blood off a demon's hide. 

"You have that much faith in them?" 

"The kid's got it handled. You didn't see him hand his old man's ass over before we cut down the tree," he snorted with half a laugh. "It was a helluva show!" 

Both ladies met raised eyebrows. 

"I bet it was." Lady scoffed. She would've paid good money to see it, too. The fight they'd witnessed at the port was more of a scuffle when Vergil surprisingly refused to go along with his son's rage. A jaded, deep-seeded part of her understood, while the other part just wanted to see Vergil get his ass kicked again. She was only sorry she couldn't do it herself until he gave her a good excuse to, and who knew when _that_ would be? 

"But what about Malphas?" Trish went on. "You don't think they'll need back up?" 

Dante shrugged, his namesake sword twirling like a baton between his deft fingers. "You wanna tell them that?" 

Trish gives no answer besides a shake of her hair. 

"They'll call if they do," Nico thought aloud, swinging her cigarette around not unlike her hero. Her boots tapped out some silent rhythm of their own time, channeling all the nerves that couldn't be soothed by her smoke. 

Right on queue, telltale hissing echoes from the depths of the Qliphoth's empty roots. In response, a new ring of red summoned swords blazed to life, waiting to strike. 

"We can check on 'em when we're done with this," Dante charged forward with a truly carefree grin. 

The ladies just sit back and let the hunter work. 

* * *

**23 December 11:52AM | Fortuna**

They arrive at the end of a poorer, plainer district of buildings, compared to the splendor of the main castle town. Amidst all the closely-knit buildings, the orphanage sticks out simply with its decent-sized yard, fenced off with sturdy, robust iron. For good reason, he could tell. Yet what appears to be a densely-populated, working-class neighborhood feels all but deserted on an otherwise fine morning. 

Vergil planted his feet and reached to his side before Nero could stop walking. 

"There," he said. 

A flash of blue light passed through an alley, and the echoes of screeching marked the end of a couple marionettes. Nero double-checked just to make sure. 

Instinctively, he reaches for Blue Rose, but a different set of reflexes stop him cold. Being this close to the orphanage and the very matrons who had scolded him back in the day, he doesn't wanna try his luck. Red Queen swings free with just as much ease as her sibling would have, engine singing as beautifully as Kyrie. 

"Any more?" 

Vergil's glare drifts to the left. 

Time at the forefront of his mind, Nero blindly throws his wire snatch at the corner and tugs. He doesn't expect to land nearly face-first into a gang of marionettes, but he's more than happy to stretch his legs out into their misshapen faces. The few that don't fall in his first kick are sliced with Red Queen's first swing, even without the Exceed's fire. all the spinning almost makes him dizzy, if not for the cold wave of wind that rushes past. 

Scarcely a step from where he'd leapt, Vergil still stands, though Yamato is raised high and behind his head, in the last phase of a cut that sliced through half a dozen more puppets. Nero still finds himself astonished that his father makes the fiercest of his moves without moving most of an inch, while he himself craved the endless movement that his breakers and sword offered him. Even when Yamato had been in his grasp, with its calm sense of power, he still wanted to swing it like his trusty ol' queen. His father would no doubt have taken his other arm if he'd ever seen him use it like that. How _poor_ and how _ridiculous_ would he describe it? Even the thought, filled in by a particularly sharp clip of that nasally voice, digs into his palm like his claws of his devil bringer once had. 

"You coulda left a few more for me," he snipes. 

"You were fast enough to take more for yourself," Vergil shoots right back, sheathing Yamato. "I just finished them." 

Nero scoffed. If he could just cross the street and get inside, he'd feel _so_ much better, and then maybe they could get their real priorities in line. 

A flash screeched by him, and sliced right between the bars of the fence. 

He's about to yelp, turn around and rip his father a new one, but a summoned sword cuts him off, sailing into a Blade; a demon with twin scythes for arms, behind the fence, _right outside the orphanage,_ evaporating all his annoyance into thin air. 

"Keep your eyes open," Vergil tuts. 

Nero doesn't need to be told twice. 

Punchline boosts him up and over the fence, setting him up for a dive bomb. The dull CLANG of blades meeting bounces him back with a disappointing parry, but he lands cleanly. His fist clenches around Red Queen hard and fast, filling the Exceed to full. 

As the Blade twists its sharp arms in its own sickly dance and charges straight for him, well, Nero would be rude to refuse. 

They meet in a shower of sparks in steel and fire, blades clanging uselessly at each other again, but Nero's got one more surprise left: In a firm twist, he locks Red Queen with the demon's namesake blade just long enough to focus enough power within in right arm. Just as the Blade begins struggling to slip free, Punchline's breakage glows with life, ready to say hello. 

Nero holds on tight as the rocket forcibly removes the Blade's scythe from its body, shards flaying out across the lawn in smoke and ash. He silently mourns the loss of one of his most dependable breakers, especially since he can't restock anytime soon. But it was necessary, and certainly a lot faster than dueling the demon for ages while his judge-y father looked on. 

He glances back to find the man in his slow saunter again, as if casually taking a stroll through the neighborhood. Vergil's eyes don't say anything more than his thinned lips do, but it's better than outright disdain, Nero thinks. Suddenly, those blank eyes briefly grow wide and then refocus, so Nero turns before he has to pay for it with more embarrassment. 

"I asked you to leave!" a voice shouts. 

A firm WHACK pulls a shriek from the near-dead demon, the light of its red eyes dying upon assault from a... broom? 

"I! Won't Ask! Again!" each word is punctuated by a SMACK and a shriek, until the demon could shriek no more. Nero's jaw would have hit the floor if it wasn't already spreading into a huge grin. He wasted no time sprinting forward, arms, mouth and eyes wide open. 

_“Kyrie!”_

“Nero? Who’s—!“ she yelped as he swept her words and shoulders into a hug and quick kiss. 

It took a good minute of just looking at her for his focus to readjust beyond _Kyrie’s okay, they're okay, everything's okay_. In his peripheral vision, reality reared its ugly face upon their personal haven once again. 

There, standing still on the steps of the orphanage as if waiting for express permission to enter, stood Vergil. 

“This is my father,” Nero quickly pointed between them. “Meet Kyrie.” 

“Oh, you mean—oh!” she gasped, hands flying to her mouth and everything. Kyrie had heard the whole shebang when Nero had come home from a whirlwind day of cutting down demonic roots and usurper kings, with a new arm and a set of wings. Back then the newly-minted Sparda had still been mourning his newfound family, and delivered that disappointment as such. In all of Kyrie's typical grace, she had helped him deal with that ugly mix of grief and anger and relief. 

The man of that complex story merely nods and shuffles inside with them, carefully eyeing the chaotic gaggle of kids running a mock. In fact, they seemed enraptured by him equally, alongside a few adult faces studying the _second_ man of startling resemblance to their resident orphan. 

Nero mentally poured one out for his privacy, again. After the Savior incident, plenty of citizens not frightened by his new, demonic abilities and unashamed use of them had taken one look at Dante and opened their mouths. Some murmured that they _had_ to be Sons of Sparda if their strength to take down the Savior was so even. Others who were of age before Nero’s birth claimed to have seen the exact man sulking about the island, certainly fathering the boy sometime along the way. All of them, even in mildly flattering form, annoyed Nero. Those same gossips had called him a curse, the unwanted son of a prostitute, or a faithless demon before he’d even become one. 

Dante had said a lot and nothing all at once. Demanding Yamato be returned to him for the better part of a day, only to turn around and leave it to Nero? _A_ _gift_ , he had said, and that was more than enough to satisfy Nero’s curiosity. People were allowed to give things selflessly, who was he to judge? Strangers helped strangers all the time, and devil hunters could certainly do the same. 

It was easier to think of his power as a blessing in the name of Sparda, rather than the careless result of a Son of Sparda. It gave the people something to believe in still, now that the shards of hell gates and Saviors littered the island like ruins of a lost civilization. In a way, their previous way of living was lost. In fact, Nero had humorlessly realized, the existence and power of Sparda was _proven_ by him! Him, the orphaned, bullied kid who made up exactly one percent of the population who didn’t actively worship the Legendary Dark Knight. It brought him no peace or ego to know this, yet he knew he had to act wisely with the knowledge. So he had spent the last five years shooing away occult fanatics and giving the locals watered-down explanations for anything they could ask of: 

_“Yes, my arm is demonic; it's a... blessing, from Sparda.”_

_“No, I’ve never met Sparda.”_

_“Dante is just the owner of the business I work for.”_

_“There aren’t any other Sons of_ _Sparda_ _that I know of...”_

And yet. Here they were. Anyone with eyes and a semi-developed brain could see the resemblance; white hair, blue eyes, cleft chin, square jaw, navy jackets—they might as well have screamed father and son just by walking into the building. It was certainly as quiet as if they had. 

Nero refocuses his buzzing mind by squeezing Kyrie's hand. “Are you okay? What happened? How are the kids?” 

“Nero, we’re fine.” 

“You didn’t sound fine on the phone,” his voice nearly clipped. 

She waved him off. But it did naught to calm the racing pulse under Nero's clammy skin. “That was a scary moment, but it was mostly for nothing.” 

“Nothing? Like smoke and demons are nothing?” 

“Come see for yourself,” she led him to the windows, where the makeshift playground he'd spent the past few years building up with whatever scrap they could find was torn askew. They had bad storms here, sure, but he and Nico had gotten decent at making toys that could withstand high winds and hard rain. This looked like a truck had run over all over it, twice. 

"They were looking for something," he realized. 

"Demons don't just give up on prey," Vergil added, nearly-wincing at Nero's instinctive glare. "They either completely lost the trail, or something else piqued their interest." 

"Hardly any have tried to come near since the Savior fell," Nero mused. "If they're brave enough to show their faces this close to the city center, something either drew them or—" 

"They knew you were gone," Vergil finished. Father and son locked fiery gazes, for once not aimed at each other. Finally, they operate on the same wave-length, zeroing in on the worst possible conclusion: Malphas _must_ be here. 

"Nero," Kyrie chirped soothingly, and all of Nero's anger melted back into worry. He floated into her arms and found her wavering gaze mirrored in the small crowd of children that surrounded them, spilling out from the rooms where they'd been ordered to stay. Nero couldn't blow up—not _here_ , not now, not after all the progress he'd made with his patience. Every single one of them had been instrumental in that, and it would have been poor form to falter in front of all of them now. 

"We think we know what it was," he said with another glance at Vergil, who remained resolute in his calm. How Nero could ever hope to attain that level of mellowness was beyond him, but it surely had to be in his genes somewhere, right? That was at least one safe thing he could aspire to gain from his father: a calmness unmatched by man or demon. It would do good to reassure Kyrie, keep the kids calm, and maybe even prevent Nico from setting him off so much. "You just keep everyone here good and safe, alright?" 

She nodded with that small, hopeful smile of hers and Nero had to keep from sighing in awe. If the situation were a bit brighter, he would have swooped her up into another hug, but the sooner he left her side this time, the better. 

"Julio and the older kids helped me barricade the doors, but it doesn’t seem like they’re after us anymore." 

“Good job, guys,” Nero ruffled the hair of a mop-headed pre-teen and smiled at the others. 

Vergil did not miss how the kids lit up at Nero’s praise and swarmed him, his own son’s face bright and wide with a smile far fonder than he’d seen thus far. These kids, this girl, this life—it all suited him. If he had been here, all those years ago, would he have robbed him of it, by taking responsibility? Were things certain to follow the idyllic route of the mirror world if he hadn't raised Temen-ni-gru, or was that merely one successful attempt out of many? His mind swirled with scenarios where Nero couldn't be a part of this world that had become so dependent on his own effort, his own power, his own love. 

The room falls away and silences so much, he nearly doesn't hear the child. 

“Is that _really_ your dad?” asked the one identified as Julio. 

Nero turned and caught his father's eye, both of them frozen solid upon contact. If it had been any of the other kids—those he didn’t see that often, those that didn’t live under his own roof—he might’ve said no. Just to avoid giving them another thing to pester him about, another topic for the nuns and their ilk to gossip about. The island was so small, so isolated, any mildly interesting bit of news would spread like wildfire. 

But Julio probably would see Vergil at least once or twice more, and was old enough to see through a white lie. Nero had been much younger when the rumors began to swirl around his own messy white hair. 

Nero shrugged. “Uh, yeah.” 

And just like that, the entire gaggle of kids lit up. 

_“Where’s he been this whole time?”_

_“Yeah, we thought you grew up here!”_

_“Did you find your mom, too?”_

“Guys, guys, calm down,” Nero soothed expertly. The first several dozen times they’d swarmed him like that he had rightly—and wrongly—snapped. He's always worked better alone, both in the field and around people. But Kyrie was a balm to all that rage, and as she had told him, the orphans could become part of that balm as well. Plus, the frightened faces that resulted from his outbursts were unforgettable and painfully familiar. He had been the overbearing kid getting snapped at, once. He had been the kid singled out, pushed away, pulled down. 

But he wasn’t anymore. Father or no father, savior or no savior. He's just Nero, like he always has been. 

“I have to go take care of the thing that scared you guys, ok?” The chorus of _awws_ and _nooos_ nearly cut his heart in two, but he gave them a reassuring smile to lessen the blow. “I’ll be back to hang out later. Listen to Kyrie and the nuns while I’m gone, yeah?” 

_Okays_ and _byes_ chorused back at him as he leapt back into the doorway and waved. Beside him, still silent and unmoving as ever, stood his father. Together, they went right back out onto the streets from whence they came. 

"Sorry about that," he immediately blurted. 

Vergil waved him off. "No need." 

Still, Nero scratched at his neck helplessly. "They’re kids, they don’t get out much, and there honestly isn’t all that much to do here." 

Vergil hums. His mind thrums with a thought that bursts free of its own volition: "Was it like that for you?" 

"Uh, a little," Nero blinks away his own shock, stuffing his hands into his pockets to free up space for his brain and mouth to coordinate. "Kyrie’s folks took me in when I was eight; they passed away by the time I turned twelve though." He sniffed. "Demons. But Credo made sure I kept my head on straight, through all of it." 

Vergil's eyes widened in a curious manner, but he pressed no further. "Good man," he muttered. 

"Yeah. He was." 

Someday, when things were this quiet and they could go this long without fighting again, Nero would give him the full story. But not today, not when they have much more pressing issues. Most of the ruins around the city spoke for themselves anyway. 

"Now it’s just me, Kyrie, Nico and the orphans. Julio’s been with us the longest, but he’s also the oldest, so—" 

"So he doesn’t consider you his father?" 

Nero stopped so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet. "N-no. I mean, it’s not a big deal—we told them they could call us whatever as long as they behave, but—" A short sigh breaks free from his scrambling throat. "It doesn’t matter. We take care of them like they’re our own. Because they deserve at least that much." 

Vergil stared long and hard between his son and the orphanage, the firm muscles in that stony face of his loosening just slightly along the edges, if that wasn't his own eyes getting clouded with a seasonal flurry. 

"I see." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, i'm still alive, somehow! I guess I don't really need to say how hard the past couple months have been for me particularly, let alone, like, everyone. but I was still steadily working at this, so there is more, don't worry! I've just been getting super-perfectionist about it bc its the end of my first longfic and I want it come off exactly as I wanted when I started :///
> 
> you may have also noticed that I changed the titles of the last couple chapters, which is just a narrative thing for me, and part of my small dilemma w/the ending. nothing else changed, I swear! I'm just improving the flow of things, I think, which'll hopefully make more sense when I'm finally done! please don't hesitate to ask about the lyrics/quotes/etc if you really wanna know, tho!
> 
> kyrie is also summoned by the sound of familial discontent, that's 10 minutes in the corner to think about what you said to each other, and then everyone apologizes, yes? yes. I've also had the image of her beating demons with a broom for awhile, so thanks for letting me indulge 😄 anyway, thanks for sticking round! I've noticed that my hits/kudos ratio kept pretty strong this whole time, so thanks for reading/rereading while I was writing/rewriting lol


	16. you go sleep with the fishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief trip on the nostalgia train stirs a few more screws loose. But father and son must carry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again! sorry again!! i should just stop making any promises, huh? :/

> _...toward the water, where some bubbles_   
> _on the surface of that underworld announced_   
> _a fatal carelessness._
> 
> _Death at a Great Distance_ , Mary Oliver 

**23 December 12:48PM | The Orphanage**

Vergil is stewing, Nero knows at least that much. The man hasn't said a word since they left Kyrie and the kids, and he's pretty sure nobody said anything that could have offended him. Probably. Sparda only knew exactly how many damn neurotic tics the man kept hidden beneath that hard surface. 

The nervous part of him wonders if those Qliphoth-enhanced senses of his father's have a lock on some of those damned demons. He's been hesitant to leave quickly, his eyes involuntarily glancing between the shrinking form of the orphanage and Fortuna's narrow, winding streets. 

"Why would demons even bother with an orphanage?" Vergil finally wonders aloud. 

"Why _wouldn't_ they?" Nero counters. He'd never known demons to make much sense, in mayhem or otherwise. 

"Children are small fare, in the grand order of things. Not worth the effort or lessened bounty." 

Translation: _less dinner for hungry demons_. Nero stifles a shiver at the thought. Leave it to the king of hell to boil it down so viciously. If he just lets the abrasiveness of it fall to the ground, empty and cold like the abrasive air, he can keep his temper in check—one of the best tactics he has for dealing with his father's... observations. 

"Do you they know of your attachment to the girl?" 

Nero blanched. He sure as hell _hoped_ not. Could demons sense that? Was it a territorial thing? Suddenly, he felt the need to slice something to shreds. 

"I just help out there a lot," he explained. "It’s how we met; she volunteered with her mom. Then we went to school together, I trained for the Order under her brother, and the rest is history.” 

“The Order of the Sword trained you?” Vergil sounded aghast at the mere mention of the organization. 

Nero winced. “I was a holy knight. Credo was the general. We were like brothers—I would’ve followed him anywhere.” 

Vergil was noticeably quiet at that. 

Nero kept his legs moving, his eyes off the building behind them and on the city center ahead of them. Nostalgia was an easy enough road to follow, especially with what little positive baggage he had of his own. He'd built his entire life around the few hands that had ever reached out to him, and only one pair of them remained. 

“Their family was the only one that didn’t pity or hate me.” 

Vergil quirked a brow. “What ever for?” 

“White-haired kid shows up outta nowhere with no way to tell who or _what_ spawned him—you do the math,” he looked away, another storm brewing behind his eyes that threatened rain. “People liked to joke that my mother must’ve been a prostitute if she didn’t bother with me.” 

There is nothing between them that can possibly fill the cold silence, although plenty of heat brews between Nero's ears, threatening to break out of his limbs and senses. His legs are the only thing that can take note, rushing forward with loud, heavy clomps that still can't quiet the thoughts echoing about his mind. But as long as he keeps moving, keeps burning off something, he'll make it through this, with or without the stony mystery that is his father, trailing behind in pace and just about everything else. It's all he can do, so it's all he does. 

“She was a librarian.” 

Nero stops cold, his boots skidding against the cold, wet street. Just like when Dante had first changed his entire outlook forever, his brow winds up tightly, a mirror of the man he can only stare at. 

“What?” 

“I don’t know if that was her formal title, what with the way things are run here,” Vergil kept his eyes trained on the lotus blossoms of Yamato’s hilt, even as his son's gaping jaw stood stark in his peripheral vision, “but she possessed an impressive understanding of the deep history of this city, and Sparda himself.” 

Nero’s jaw sputters out a mirthless breath. It almost feels like a laugh, slipping out of his chest and through his chapped lips. 

“H-huh. That’s fitting.” 

“Indeed.” 

The air swirls with his rapid imagination, the chill of an Atlantic winter, and a barrage of emotions he can't ever hope to name. All of it threatens to crystallize like the icicles on the roofs above them, falling and slicing through his spine like damn near every word out of his father's mouth. 

Yet the shift in gravity is instantly shattered by a shrill RING, shaking a few icicles loose from his frozen brain and the surrounding roofs. 

Vergil's keen eyes and furrowed brows dart around slowly, but even he finds nothing of interest. When his own surprise melts thoroughly enough, Nero darts towards a run-down little booth at the end of the block that he'd forgot existed, frankly, but it's the only thing that makes sense. 

"Hello?" Nero hesitantly answers. 

_"Hey, kid."_

"Dante?" Nero gapes with a pointed look at Vergil. His father inched closer to the olden payphone with eyes so narrowed, it seemed like he was trying to glare through the phone. 

"The ladies wanted to check in on you!" 

Nero hummed a suspicious note. "I'm sure they did." 

But Dante ignores him, barreling straight ahead like always. "Demons finally decided to show up to the party, but they went quick, so we're holdin' it down." 

A huff. As impatient as he is, Nero can't disagree with a little check-in, however much it pushes on some rather weighty nerves. 

"We're by the orphanage checking things out," he adds. 

"Everyone okay?" 

"For now, yeah." 

"Tell Kyrie I said hey!" Nico's voice echoed in the background. 

Nero winced and glanced back at the distant shape of the Orphanage; just a couple blocks away now. They were falling behind, taking too long, and what if the bastards were just _waiting_ for them to get far enough away to came back— 

"We got rid of one of those things you lost," Dante steers the train of thought back to the tracks. 

Nero just feels more lost than before. "What?" 

A distant murmuring took over the static of the call, and Nero could distinctly picture all of the ladies fighting his uncle for ownership of the phone. 

"The red rock!" Dante finally added. 

"That _rock_ was a potent source of demonic energy, Dante," Vergil deadpanned. 

"Whatever." 

Two feminine voices hummed into the call, pushing Dante's aside. 

"Hey, don't let your old man slack off, alright?" Lady asserted. 

Nero pinned his father with a sideways grin as the man rolled those narrow eyes. "Not about to start." 

"But really, listen," Trish began to plead. And Nero couldn't deny the genuine pull of her voice, even through the phone. 

“Be careful with Malphas; we don’t know what kind of power she’s been using since the ambush.” 

Vergil scoffed. "That's unlikely. Nero defeated her well enough before; I was there." He’d saved his life. And he still hadn't quite paid him back for it. 

“Nevertheless,” the demoness sighed, “I don’t need to tell you hard it can be to make death _stick_ to a demon.” 

“And don’t make us bail you out again!” Lady chirped from the distance, alongside echoes of laughter. 

Nero had to admit, he could hear nothing but good nature, even in their radio-distorted voices. With no vices behind them, it calmed his still-thrumming nerves. But a part of him couldn’t just let them off the hook that easily. Not after all they'd done for him the past month. 

“Y'know, if you guys are so confident, why don’t you catch a ride on the way back with Nico? I’m sure Kyrie and the kids would love to have some company for the holiday.” 

“Oh,” Lady gasped, voice falling even further away from the speaker. “Oh!” 

Nico’s drawl took over the static, and Nero could just picture all four of her wide eyes. “Is she goin’ for the whole goose? I still haven’t gotten to try it!” 

“You won’t know unless you get back by tomorrow!” 

The mechanic cursed loudly, and Nero could just hear the stomp of her boots over his own laughter. Like ol' crew cut, she ordered the ladies into seats, or else. Then the voices quieted down and the call seemed forgotten for a long, awkward moment. 

Nero was seconds away from hanging up when another loud muffle took his finger off the receiver. 

"Well, don't let us keep you," Dante gleefully supplied. "Just get a good shot in on that witch for me, eh?" 

"Not on your life, old man." 

With another shout Dante did his best to make Nero's ears bleed. "You too, Verge!" 

His twin scoffed. "I do no such favors." 

Dante matched the sound and hung up. 

A long, hallowed breath fell out of Nero's lungs as he put the phone down. The plume of condensation grew slowly from his exhale, floating off into the dreary sky like most of his nerves. A comfortable distance away, Vergil merely waited, as ready and willing as he seemingly could be. Enthusiasm wasn't a big look on him, apparently. 

Add it to the ever-growing list of emotional states that weren't in the man's programming. 

"Well?" Nero rose a brow at his father. 

"Do plan on razing the entire island for the witch?" Vergil countered. He had nearly done such himself, all those years ago. Such was why he had sought guidance on where to begin his research, rather than stumble about like a fool. And yet... when he had found his source... 

"You're the one who had her figured out; you tell me." 

"Is that a threat?" 

"Only if you want it to be." 

his father disarmed with a similar deep exhale, as he deigned to explain. "She would prefer a place very susceptible to demonic power. In Red Grave, we knew exactly where that was, but with so much of this isle being directly connected to such..." 

"We used to have a ton of hellgates just sitting around," Nero bit out, another growl getting cut on his teeth. He led his father's eyes towards the weathered remains of the largest one, still visible through half the island's skyline. It just looked like a big pile of rock now, which made downplaying it to visitors easy, but looking at it never felt as such. Thoughts of how naive and stupid he had been, as the Order prattled on with their plans, send him spiraling back down that dark angry well in his gut. It had been too easy; everyone just said "cool!" and went along with it. _God_. 

Vergil's own frown focused on the rubble. "Do none of them still function?" 

"None of the fake ones. Just the real one—the one Sparda kept?" 

Vergil nodded. His father had done such, yes. Though for what exact purpose, no amount of research had ever yielded to him. 

"Where is it?" 

Nero balks. "You don't know?" 

For a brief, annoying moment, Vergil's furrowed brow matches his son's. "I knew of a functioning hellgate, but most of the Order didn't. If they always knew of its existence, they kept it hidden from most of their own." 

Nero swung Red Queen off his back and pointed to the tallest gleaming spire twisted into the skyline. 

* * *

**2:14 PM | Fortuna Opera House**

The opera house is dramatically different than Vergil's first trip. For one, its opulent plaza and surrounding block have taken a beating. Any obvious rubble is missing, most likely cleared out by Nero himself, he realizes, but many buildings sport barely-hidden scars or visibility different facades. The beautiful fountain at its center, one of the oldest still functioning in this hemisphere, if his memory serves him right, looks fine—but it's entirely lost said function. 

Nero, with those ever-wide eyes, does not miss his father's brief investigation. 

"It got totally blasted when _His Holiness_ went down," he explains without prompt, a fierce venom seeping through the casual tones of his voice. If the boy was referring to Sanctus, Vergil thought, he was more than warranted. 

"Order went out of their way to get it restored quick, but they ran into some problems with the plumbing." 

Vergil can only hum at the irony. Centuries-old marble and artistic mastery replicated by the new age, defeated by archaic piping. Par for the course of this damned island, it seemed. 

"I do recall its splendor," he admitted. As well as some clandestine meetings under its cool mist on sweltering summer nights... 

"The place got beat up more on the inside than the outside, though." 

That piqued Vergil's interest. The interior had been under heavy construction, before. One glance was it all it took for him to realize the Order wasn't using it as a cover for something more interesting. Just the outline of what looked like a garish statue. He wondered how it would've turned out, then. 

Now, as they venture inside doors hastily draped with caution tape, it appears he'll never know. 

"Your doing?" Vergil points as the vaguely-humanoid hunk of rock. 

Nero grins wickedly. "And Dante's." 

"Of course." 

It's a wonder how the building even still _stands_. The statue's face is shorn clean off, and it's beaten hands grasp nothing. Some elevated platforms of the opera in name don't seem completely wrecked, but its pews are few and far in between. The floor, meanwhile, is in shambles—most likely saved for last on the repair list. But it barely appears as if any repairs had been completed at all, to Vergil's keen eyes. He certainly didn't envy the poor soul that had to be in charge of a restoration this large. It was a miracle they'd gotten the fountain to appear decent at all. 

Like the nostalgia, a wave of demonic energy whips into him with the same force of the chill outside. There must be a hellgate here, and possibly much more, he would wager. 

But it's... familiar. Like breaking the final seal on Temen-ni-gru—there's a restrained power, pulling and pleading with every sense he has to set it free. 

Yet, as Vergil thoroughly searches, Nero simply saunters to the center of the room and waits. The tiles give way with a short rumble, some dust, and the platform begins to move. 

_Ah_ , he thinks, careful of his son's wrath as he quickly teleports to the secret elevator. 

The view below them comes into focus slowly but surely, as both can feel the increased demonic energy clawing out in desperate waves. Even buried deep in the earth, dormant for centuries, it seemed to recognize them. Kin of Sparda, returned to open the apex of their sire's creation. 

If it could only tell they were here to do the opposite. 

"No doubt destroying this gate would have been more trouble than it's worth," Vergil murmurs. 

Nero's ears perk up. "How so?" 

"For one, half the island would have nothing left to stand on," the dark slayer nodded his chin at pillars of carved stone, wide and firm, but clearly ancient and lacking, compared to the thick walls of dense earth. Small lamps lit with hellfire illuminated little around them, but their heightened nerves could certainly sense the vast emptiness of the chamber. At its farthest reaches were long caves of underground rivers, crisscrossing the entire island, most likely. If Nero could recall any of his natural history classes, he probably had been told about the groundwater and erosion and such, but a certain auburn ponytail in his frontal vision always clouded those memories. 

"Oh." 

"For another," Vergil points ahead at the long, solitary walkway awaiting them, "there is no portal here to open." 

"What the hell?" Nero gapes and does a full turn. It all just seems like an old, creepy chamber to him. Par for the course of the Order and this damned island. 

Vergil gave something of a nod. "Malphas would not find this place of any use to her, even with her artifacts. For what she must hope to achieve, there must be more than just a direct connection to hell." 

Nero took another glance around, looking for anything; a sigil, a trap to fall from the ceiling, another shiny artifact, but the cavern remains as dark and demure as its rest below the city. 

Vergil tsks with his disappointment. "An integral component to many demonic rituals is not just blood, but water," he explains. "If I were to use Yamato here, it certainly could open a portal, but only by its native strength." 

The man unsheathes a portion of Yamato, and in its reflection, Nero can see that the pool of water below them is barely ankle-height, if that. It shifts slowly and softly, most unlike Fortuna's typically burbling brooks. 

"Ice must be blocking all the natural streams, or the tide's just too low," Nero murmured. 

Vergil circled at his side, doing his own inspection of the darkest corners. "I can't imagine even the Order would have kept a steady well of blood available for such means." 

Nero could, actually, but the less he thought about it, the better. "Nah, it would probably be too thick, huh?" 

Vergil does not smirk or scoff. He simply stands in his icy silence, no muscle in his face giving way to anything else. _Jeez_ , Nero thinks, no wonder Dante's such a clown; the guy carries 110% of the family funny bone. 

Nero liked to think he knew a good line when he had one, at least. Credo and Kyrie were the only audience he had, and they were typically...divided on his quips. 

As if on queue, a telltale cackling cuts through the damp air. 

"Close, but not quite enough!" 

Nero turned and lifted Blue Rose with the speed of its twin bullets, but his arm wavered. The echo of the cave walls spun his ears silly, and even the dark glow of his eyes couldn't spot the voice's source. Every direction led only to another passage of darkness, punctuated by whistling gusts and shifting water. 

"Shut up and pull up, witch!" he ordered. 

The cackling echoes just got louder, but not closer. "Why in such a hurry? A hostess should entertain her guests, no?" 

"Only thing we'll be hosting is your corpse!" 

At Nero's left, Vergil is planted like a tree, his thumb already flicked upward on Yamato's pommel. He only needed a second, a single flash to spark in the dark and Malphas would be as good as sushi. But both of them can do nothing but wait, and does nothing but infuriate them both. 

"Now drown with the rest of your mortal ilk!" 

A loud SLAM blasts their ears and the walls of the chamber. Both their feet are swayed by the platform, but never tripped. Stalactites and rocks begin to fall from the cavern ceiling, threatening to run them through, not that it could have really stopped them. Nero and Vergil dodge easily, eyes still erratically searching for a source. What little water about rises rapidly and dangerously, creating rapids that thrash violently at the ancient columns. 

"There!" Nero points at a large boulder barreling through the chamber, urged forward by the rapids and the slope of the earth. it leads into the dark abyss of the caves, deep into the lowest recesses of the island--places even the Order couldn't have dared since the age of Sparda himself. 

As his father quizzically looks on, Nero summons his wings and makes the long jump to the rock. 

"We can ride it after her!" 

Vergil sees the unflinching instincts of his son rise high and resolute. Doubting him now would accomplish nothing, not that there was anything to doubt. He too, would chase after Malphas into the darkest night if it meant extracting his own revenge. And Nero has yet to lead him completely wrong. 

With a short teleport, Vergil reappears at his son's side, steady and unsteadily as the bolder rumbles free from the chamber. Father and son share a quick glance at each other and back into the approaching darkness rushing towards them. Like they had once stepped onto a falling theater stage, with a familiar backdrop and enemy on the horizon, they await the worst that the multi-handed clutches of Malphas can offer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever realize that if vergil had just hung around fortuna longer, he could've just stuck yamato into the button under the opera house, grabbed his dad's power, and been done with it? (this is ignoring how important temen-ni-gru probly was, but they're never very specific about it, so what??) it just blows my mind that vergil would ignore ANY real hellgate at all. god i love plotholes
> 
> anyways, sorry about the wait again but it just took AGES before i could draft any version of this that i didn't completely hate. most the nostalgia was just me trying to have fun so the trip wouldn't be as boring ://// it feels a little fillery, i know, but that's just bc the word count of this + the next chap was getting stupidly high, and i didn't wanna wait to see if i could break 10k for one update lmao. next part should definitely be sooner than this one took :,)


	17. send my regards to hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero and Vergil reach the ending, but it doesn't have to be.

> _It could mean something._   
> _It could mean everything._   
> _It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:_   
> _You must change your life._
> 
> "Invitation," Mary Oliver 

**3:22 PM | Below Fortuna**

In the first burst of rapids, Nero felt exhilaration like nothing else. Surfing down an underground river while dodging stalactites and rocks alike was a rush he hadn't felt since the Qliphoth incident. He was about ready to pull out Red Queen or his claws in order to steer the boulder and get them more speed on Malphas' trail, but every time the water seemed to slow, a new current would sweep in and escort them through another tributary of river-caves. 

Them. Himself and his father, working together to stop the scheming demon witch, _again_. 

It's nothing like last time, with how quiet and dark it is. The Qliphoth doesn't pulse with blood around them, nor do demons slither round dead corners like Red Grave's. Neither of those things exist here in Fortuna's bowels. _Almost more eerie than the demons themselves_ , Nero thinks. Did it mean they truly did rely on humans? Were they _that_ far underground? He had no idea, no clue where to begin, no hints to see, and Vergil gives none of the above. 

Not like he ever thought he'd have a father to ask for help, anyway. 

Vergil had immediately planted Yamato into their floating boulder, locked his hands together on the pommel, and stood resolutely through every bank and rapid that came their way. Impressive center of balance aside, Nero can't believe the guy. Then, with single glance, he places his father's stance against his memories of the ruined monument to Sparda, just above them. Had he learned it from the man that had simply been his father, before any sort of legend? Or is this just Vergil's way of being a stuck-up dumbass? Both? 

With a huff, Nero sits at the edge of the rock and runs his hand through the water. _Fuck_ , its cold. But it's the silence that really stings, seeping into his spine more fiercely than the strongest winter gales. 

"So, what'd you think we'll find?" 

Vergil merely hums. 

Nero clears his throat pointedly. Bastard better not leave him out to dry now. 

His father’s hum gives way to a sigh. "I assume these tributaries lead to a larger source of water, correct?" 

Nero could only nod. He has absolutely no sense of direction down here, but he can guess that any river will eventually meet those of Mitis forest or Ferrum Hills. If they did mess with the flow of the stream at all, they'd probably just get themselves lost. Some of the passing stalactites give off a familiar lavender glow, though he wouldn't entirely call it a good sign as they travel further into the unknown. 

"Creating a hellgate is a delicate matter. If Malphas hasn't already begun, there will be ample time to stop her." 

Nero's lip pursed with a thought he couldn't let go. Not in here, trapped with all the stale air and excuses. 

"Look at you, all worried about time when we met, and now you can't give a shit." 

"That was a much different matter. A different place. A different... self." 

"Wasn't that the whole point?" If Yamato hadn't already pinned his father to the rock, Nero would've done it with his eyes alone. "That V was as much a part of you as that asshole Urizen? Except V took all the sense to his grave, huh?" 

Vergil scoffed. "If you understand it so well, then I have no need to explain it." 

"So what, now you're above giving an opinion?" 

Nothing. 

But Nero keeps pressing forward with all the energy pooling in that deep, dark core he's still getting to know. "What did you even do to him, huh? Is he really still in there?" 

More long silence, filled only by the water's absent splashing, the slosh of ice against rock. The curling runes grow larger, brighter on the cavern walls. They're getting close. and a part of him just knows they won't have much more time, after. This is it, if he wants to prove just how much he understands. 

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think I knew a guy who was desperate to survive. And you definitely wouldn't have begged me to help you through that tree if you didn't see a goal there. I don't know what happened to that huge head of yours when you threw V and Urizen back into it, but I sure as hell know that determined idiot is still in there _somewhere."_

A brief tremor passed through his father's shoulders, and for a moment, Nero wonders if the man is about to turn on him in rage or in tears. But when he does turn, it's with the slighted tilt of a smirk, leftover from a fond chuckle. 

"I never expected him to have any strength," Vergil confessed. All his planning, all his considerations—made moot by a lanky, tattooed man with too-scruffy hair, dirt constantly under his open toes. Yet, none of that and much more ever stopped him. "He was supposed to die quickly, easily." 

It's Nero's turn to chuckle, just a little. "Yeah? Well, you should be glad your human ass took all the motivation in the divorce, because your demon ass didn't do anything but sit around!" 

"What foolishness," Vergil scoffed, but couldn’t help the fondness that slipped out. 

Before he can even savor the sound of his father's soft Nero's ears perked up. the distant crashing of water had less echo and more static. the river picks up in speed, hurrying even their boulder-raft along quicker. As the smooth groundwater shifting to white froth and cold mud, they both brace for a return of the rapids. 

They emerge just beyond Fortuna Castle, where the island's largest river meets land, providing an endless supply of water to a waterfall not unlike the first and last Vergil saw of hell. A fitting return, he would almost say, if Nero knew of any of that history. 

It's better that he doesn't, he decides. His own nostalgia often tastes bitter, and Nero has already made clear how little he cares for his family's residual... issues. It will be his way or the highway, as Dante would put it. Thank the gods his idiot brother isn't here to do so, otherwise he wouldn't be able to focus on keeping his son's temper in check. 

Speaking of said son, Vergil struggles to keep himself from scoffing at the sight of Nero shaking water of his short locks like a wet dog. How droll, and not unlike his middling brother. Dante's influence has been so harmful to the boy, Vergil wonders if it can ever truly be undone. He's certainly not about to hope. 

As his son watches, Vergil slicks his hair back with a single, firm sweep of his hand—not a single strand left out of place. Only when he nods, do a few stray drops of water fall down, unbidden. 

Nero just blinks and trails him. 

Silently, they sidestep the battered side of the castle, their family's apparent legacy there, and the suspicious remains of the basement laboratory. There is a more urgent presence abound, one that grows in devilish power like the winter storm around them. Vergil is suspicious of the familiarity in the swirling coalescence of energy and wind, beckoning them closer to an unknown just as that which had brought him back from hell. Was it Malphas' doing? _All_ of it, a sick sort of coincidence? He dislikes being ignorant almost as much as he dislikes being bamboozled, and neither will be allowed to pass when he has his way. 

Nero, for once, seems to share his intent, as he wordlessly shadows him without complaint. An atypical harmony that surely would not last past the coming battle, just as they enter the waterfall's vast basin. Sure enough, its lake-like size is fed not only by the waterfall, but by the high tide reflecting a rising moon in the early night. partly blocked by a mass that aligns with both of their senses. 

Perched atop a gurgling purple mass stands Malphas, surrounded by monoliths of river rocks carved with purple runes, glowing in tune. 

"Ah, just in time to meet my new pet!" 

She moves, revealing a cauldron not unlike those she used before. But instead of the angry bird at her disposal, a dark violet eye emerges; all-too-familiar to them both. 

It’s Nightmare, unmistakably growing from its beta form. 

"Don't tell me all I did was kill the _chicken?"_ Nero groaned. 

The hilt of Yamato pulled at Nero’s shoulder as the grip of V’s cane once had, stopping him short. Vergil has his full attention, and he doesn’t waste it. 

“It may be more helpful to think of them as... familiars.” 

And that was the wheel that began turning in his mind. Just as V's pets were never real demons; Urizen had placed Trish and Lady within such shells, reducing their wills down to power and instinct alone. Malphas sought the same for her own resurrected demons, and wisps of others they’d all faced in the past. But she's already died twice. One more strike is all they need on any of the three heads. 

The top head of the trio—the same one Nero had popped like a balloon with a single blast of Blue Rose—wears shards of Cavaliere Angelo's discarded helmet, both horns shorn off and cracked in bounds, though it had very little to cover or protect anymore. The left and right witches used various lengths of Artemis' tendrils in place of their arms, but only a few of them seemed to actually fire lasers anymore. All of them melded together by Malphas' grotesque magic, forming a gorgon-like monster that befit her more than the horrific bird she'd reigned before. 

Nero barked a laugh. "So you're a scavenger now? C'mon, where's the originality!" 

His father scoffed so mockingly, Nero almost wanted to beam. Almost. "Most demons don't have the capacity to form original thought." 

Malphas' screech shook the ground beneath them, though neither Sparda lost their footing. 

"Laugh yourselves into hell, then! It will save me the effort.” 

"Thanks for the offer, but," Nero strolled about idly, swinging Red Queen like a baton. "I've lost enough family to that place, and I’m not exactly _dying_ to go myself, y'know? Nobody gives it good reviews.” 

"You certainly carry the tongue of the devil hunter, but you ought to take after the silent reign of your father, child!" 

With a flick of one of her many wrists, the Artemis-armed witch littered their path with lasers, sending the Spardas leaping aside. The cauldron then gurgled over with Nightmare's ever-growing ooze, staining the water black and blocking the rest of their path. 

Nero leapt with a melodic blast of Gerbera, bouncing out of harm's way and closer to the witch's brew. At his opposite, Vergil pirouetted side to side, only a step each time, just enough to clear each blast, and none more. Even to Nero's keen eye, it seemed as though his father scarcely moved, his calculation of the exact amount of space he needed to sidestep was astounding. It wasn't a big deal; yet his father treated it like a dance to be performed rather than a projectile to be dodged. 

As they surged closer, the single-horned Cavaliere head seized with violent sparks, setting the water alight with electricity. As Nero used his wings to grasp more air, Vergil dared to trick through every wave of water and light, miraculously going untouched. 

A sudden stomp shudders the earth beneath them, stalling their momentum. While Vergil grips Yamato firmly on dry rock, Nero lands onto a knee and braces himself with his breaker as the witch stomps like the children at the orphanage in full tantrum mode. Waves of freezing water and icy sludge mix with the dirt and dark ooze of Nightmare's rebirth, overflowing the cauldron as its growth increases. 

Nero clicked his tongue with a tsk. "Throwing a fit won't make it go any faster!" 

"Patience is a virtue," Vergil smirked. 

"I had patience," Malphas crooned, her arms bidding the cauldron to burble more violently, "enough to know that the city has outlasted its usefulness. Like Mallet, this island is the perfect shape for my own bidding." 

"Mallet?" Nero's head veers towards his father, who grits his teeth so firmly together that he would bare his fangs, were he younger and brasher. Age has brought him at least some added patience, moreso than his son holds currently. 

"A cursed, ruined place," Vergil seethes as he looks all the way through his son, to a young man of even less age, but far more experience. none of which the boy is, would, or should know. Let him wonder, it would do him better than the truth certainly could. 

V had known as much. 

The witch picks that time to cackle for all she's worth, the glint in her ink-filled eyes brewing brighter, somehow. She _knows_ , of course. The underworld hears of all its citizens, their most infamous most of all. 

"Why even bother with this insignificant place? The humans almost destroyed it themselves! I'm merely finishing the job!" 

"This ass-backwards rock is my _home_ ," Nero bit out through his own fangs. "And like it or not, it's worth saving. Again." 

She scoffed. "You have a weakness for lost causes, young Sparda. Much like your own sire, here." 

"You assume too much," Vergil sniped. "To assume that kin of Sparda would not fight, _and_ that you stand a minute chance without underlings doing your bidding any longer?" Then he chuckled. Actually honest-to-god, whole-heartedly _chuckled_. "Foolishness." 

They rush forth in tandem, Yamato and Red Queen just a hair's breadth apart as they swung out. Artemis' tendrils fall in ribbons alongside neatly-sliced shards of Cavaliere's helmet. Malphas' screech pierces their ears, but both Spardas land with all of their strength and stature. 

Neatly disarmed, the witch claws desperately for her growing pet, still writhing in its incomplete form above the glowing sigil. At the rim of the cauldron atop it all, Malphas carries herself as high as she still can and grins. Another hand brings forth a small twinkle of golden light, shining brightly in her dark grasp. With a choke of breath, Nero recalled where he’d seen it before—in his father’s hands, mere minutes after waking from a coma-like slumber. 

On queue, Vergil’s gaze darkened. Defeat was never a good look on him, but seeing revenge weaponized in his father's eyes was a look Nero didn't envy. 

“One does not simply find a Philosopher’s Stone so easily,” Malphas crooned, her other hands beholding the egg-like artifact with awe. “It certainly saved me the trouble of making one myself.” 

“Then allow us to relieve you of it.” 

Vergil grasps the hilt of one of his summoned swords and winds it behind his back—almost like a pitcher rearing to throw a fastball. But instead of pitching, he swings the sword in long, quick slashes that unleash rifts of power right through the witch and her familiar. 

Cool as it looks, Nero doesn't wait to gawk. He shoots a fully-charged blast of Blue Rose at the same spot and leaps onto Punchline—rising as close as he can without the growing Nightmare's sludge touching him. he leaps as high as he dares and feels the charge build in his arm like it had so many times before. He lets go, and the elbow rocket takes flight. 

If his timing is right—and he _knows_ it's right, it's what he's been best at for as long as he's held a sword—Blue Rose's explosive round combined with Punchline's breakage can only equal one thing: 

Fireworks. 

* * *

**6:06 PM | Fortuna Castle Outskirts**

Nero's breath flowed in short bursts, lifting puffs of condensation around his brow just as his horns did. With or without the fog in his sight, he could tell Malphas was on her last legs, with nowhere left to go. She was surrounded by sickening chunks of black sludge that surely had to be the remains of Nightmare-beta's botched resurrection. Even the witch's cauldron has been blasted to bits, and her magic drained from any traces of blood or water that flood the riverbanks around them. Just like last time, it wouldn't take much more than a charged shot from Blue Rose to put her down. But just like last time, he's not the only one here. 

Instead of cowering in a corner, scarcely able to stand, let alone defend himself, Vergil, nee V, has taken the battlefield as his own. And Nero's been at his side the whole time. 

He saunters over to his father, who stands as ready as he always does: hands firm on Yamato, legs planted and ready to spring should he need to dodge or strike. But his son just stops and nudges him with an elbow, eyes alight with mischief. 

"You want the honors?" 

Vergil's brow flew up as fast as Nero could see. He felt a laugh bubble up in his dry throat and die. But he had to keep a straight face—the moment demanded it, and he wanted to remember this as stylishly as it felt. 

Nero could swear he heard a deep breath ring out of his father's chest as the man straightened himself out and stepped forth. Vergil wiped the emotion off his face as quickly as it had come, replaced by those perma-furrowed brows his son knew so well. Yamato slid slowly out of her sheath and hovered at his side as it always did, firm and deadly in the dark slayer's grasp. 

But then, Vergil unveils his own surprise. 

He lets go of the _saya_. Slowly, with a bit of reverence, but firmly enough that Nero instinctively knew it was on purpose. He and Vergil were polar opposites in that way—Nero had never used the fancy sheath even once, and he had yet to see Vergil without it. Until _now_ , as the man wraps both hands on the katana's pommel as he lifts it as high as he can, staring into middle distance. 

Yamato plunged downward, taking Vergil with it. 

Nero's eyes widened as he surged forward, nerves alight with the same energy that flowed from his father's aura in waves. 

"Wait—!" 

Just as when Vergil was first reborn, a firm blast of power throws Nero off his feet with a shower of blinding violet and blue sparks, pooling water into his eyes in ways he would never confess to anyone. Only a rapid series of blinks later could he see it, he, _them_? 

Floating above the ashes of dirt, blood, and the dark slayer himself, V rises like a pale, skinny phoenix. 

Nero would've laughed if his jaw wasn't so busy falling to the floor. 

In front of them both, the demon witch watches with what few functioning eyes still has, claws curling with hatred in all six fists. 

"You?!" Malphas rasps in rage and shock, "Did you learn _nothing_? All the time in either realm couldn't prepare that _weakling_ to face me!" 

With just the ghost of a smirk painted on crooked, chapped lips, V spoke. 

_"I'm taking my time."_

Another spark flashed across his pale face, and his curls grew white as Lamia Peak. In his gloved hand, he held his cane just as he would Yamato, sparks of violet and silver brimming with power. From his arms, his tattoos fell into the ashes that formed his nightmares: Griffon, as bright as ever, Shadow, as dark as always, and Nightmare, taller and more formidable than its predecessor before it. V lifted the cane up as high as his spindly arms could, then began to conduct his own personal orchestra of power. 

Lightning rained down from the heavens, striking through the witch's heart, and whisking her right back to hell. 

As wave after wave of energy burst forth from the performance, Nero felt his own demon singing along, almost. But he didn't need to reach for those same senses to feel nothing but a hollowness where the familiars stood; as much as he wanted to believe his eyes, these weren't the real demons. Trish had mentioned their noble end at Dante's hands, but a part of him felt like they couldn't be gone for good. They just _couldn't_ be. They had survived death once before, hadn't they? And he would've lied if he said he didn't miss Griffon's melodic squawk and Shadow's gentle purrs. He could see why V, and incidentally, Vergil, had become so fond of them. Good companions were hard to find in their line of work, let alone powerful, demonic ones. 

But even as the thunder and fire began to die down, Nero could hear the gaping silence of the bird's crows and the cat's roars. They were not and would never be the exact demons they had known, but V—Vergil?—summoned their forms regardless. Asking exactly _how_ wouldn't get them anywhere, Nero already knew. It was as simple an explanation as to how he could summon and dismiss his human arm at will now: He just _could_. His father summoning his poetry-loving, goth-looking self with pets to help? He just _could_. 

And it was pretty damn impressive. 

Finally, V's feet met the ground for the first time, and Nero caught the semblance of a wobble in his thin steps. Still, V wordlessly approached for the first time since the Qliphoth still stood, and reached out. Nero holds up the discarded _saya_ for him. 

"Thank you, Nero." 

His tongue is still too dry to do anything but nod while V reclaims the sheath and falls to one knee. Violet and blue sparks erupt from his fingers, racing up his tattoos with light. In their place, Vergil's coat replaced itself, weaving his vest together and coursing through his limbs with nothing but power. Nero let himself blink just once this time, but its long enough for his father's stone-like face to reform right in front of him, whole once again. The same hands that beheld the cane like a conductor lifted Yamato up once more, and it went safely back into the _saya_. 

"Well, that's a nice party trick," Nero finally scoffed. 

Vergil frowned. "I should hope not." 

"Still, it's nice to see your better half again. You should let him out more often." 

The roots of a glare settle onto his father's brow. "You truly see him as the better half?" 

"Well, I mean—" ... _fuck_ , he had him. V was a total oddball, sure, but wasn't Vergil the _original_ weirdo? Fate had made it pretty clear that he was just destined to have an awkward asshole for a father; human, demon, or both at once. Did he wanna hang out with the gangly poet or the cold statue? 

Honestly, there wasn't really a choice. Both had their pros, their cons. Asking him to choose would be like asking whether he preferred his left or right hand. He _needed_ both, and it didn't matter which one he used, so long as they were still handy. He can't just say that, thought, and while his brain scrambles to get up, Vergil scoffs. 

"His methods were useful when needed, but he is still too weak to last very long." 

Nero reached for Vergil's shoulder again, but was dodged. As his father turned away, he hid those brief signs of the heart that tried to climb onto his shoulder. Nero only wished to see it in full view—if not now, when? God help him if he lets this chance get buried in the ruined riverbed. 

Meanwhile, the dark slayer crosses the remains of their battlefield; mud, ice, and ashes stirred about like a stew. He draws Yamato and catches the full moon, shadowing him menacingly, but all Nero wants to do is laugh. 

"I think we should walk." 

Vergil just blinks. 

"Besides." Nero shrugs and brushes past his father, "it wouldn't be very smart to do _that_ near the house again, huh?" 

Yamato falls uselessly at Vergil's side. But with a sigh, he sheathes it. 

Nero glances at the path to Lamina Peak, thankful that the snow isn't too bad yet. It won't be too long of a climb—a few hours, tops—but it'll definitely feel longer if they keep marching around the bush like this. He broke one cycle with all the strength he could summon into his arms; he'll crush another with any words he can think of. 

"I was hoping we could pass the time with a little story, if you feel like picking up where you left off," he leads on, eyes so stuck to his father that he hopes the man can feel it, sharp and stinging as could be. At this point, he knows not to expect much. 

" _A truth that's told with bad intent, beats all the lies you can invent_.” 

Nero's eyes widen and narrow in the same blink. "It's still the truth, dammit." 

Vergil just shakes his head. "From the moment I arrived on this isle, I wondered if it was even worth my time. The thought of humans worshiping my father—a man who could hardly do laundry, let alone rule the human world like a true king—it was blasphemous." 

"Yeah, I never followed their fandom for a second." 

"And with good reason. Much of their literature was either falsified or exaggerated. I didn't need thorough research to know that, but...” he stops. Literally and figuratively. 

Nero has no choice to but to halt besides him. "What?" 

" _She_ knew much more. I was led to believe that she taught on the subject, on and off the island, which was why I sought out her expertise. Eventually, she sought me out as well." 

"And here I am," Nero huffed. 

"Indeed you are." 

Nero rolled his eyes. It felt silly to be diminished to a footnote in a bigger story, but it didn't bother him as much as he thought it might. And he really didn't need any more detail on _that_ part. 

"It didn't matter what or where the information was," Vergil continued, "she went after it like a vice. That kind of drive is one born of fierce motivation, and cannot be taught." 

"Actually took a minute of your time, huh?" Nero let a little smirk curl up his jaw. 

"...She was worthy of it." 

Vergil's eyes wandered somewhere far off in the horizon, despite the pitch-darkness of the night firmly draped around them. Perhaps it was the thin clouds, trying in vain to hide the full moon. Or the scattered stars twinkling brighter in the absence of light pollution. Whatever it was, it drew his father into a long thought he could only hope would be voiced. 

"She considered herself compelled to protect the truth of this place. I respected that; in a way I considered myself the same, just opposite. She would keep prying humans away from what wasn't theirs while I would reclaim what was mine from the demons. If we could both accomplish our goals, then..." 

Nero's breath hitches. "You would have come back?" 

Vergil's jaw unclenches, then shuts and dips slowly, hiding half of his face behind his high collar. Not a nod, nor a shake. A hesitation, if nothing else. 

"I was very driven. I had come here for knowledge and found it, but not all that I needed. I never intended to stay, nor could I, after what I’d already started... what I desired most." 

"And what was that?" What so enticing that he would leave so much behind? 

"I would gain the power of my father, prove myself superior to Dante, and avenge our mother’s murder." 

Power. Revenge. Protection. All lined up neatly in a row. 

(It had been possible, a small floundering thought begins in his mind, at the bottom of his to-do list, that he could have come back. With the strength to protect anything, they would have been more than secure. But that was far from a sure thing; neither of them had even been sure enough to label their courtship at all. All he had known at the time was the allure of power, and the assurance it would have brought him, could he just take it. The fear would drain away and he would stand uncontested, above demons and humans, free to conduct himself as highly as Sparda before him, however he could imagine. 

And as the mirror world had so abruptly shown him, even Nero could have been part of that.) 

Nero just stares all the way through him, eyes wide as the pools surrounding them. But he can't see through, he knows, because of this very chasm that exists between them, and Vergil will jump back into hell without Yamato before he'll hunker down beside him and help fill it. 

"What did you expect me to say?" 

A long, hollow breath stutters through his son's throat. "Nothing, honestly." 

"You're lying." 

"I'm not! Really, I don't care! You're pretty damn good at being a deadbeat, so just keep it up!" 

Nothing, for ages. 

"I am... sorry." 

"...what?" Nero is just as breathless, despite the clouds that burst from his mouth and are quickly stolen by winter's breeze. 

"I can apologize, if you want." 

"For what? Say what you fucking mean for once!" 

"For not being present. Or, naming you as who you truly are, I suppose. However you want to phrase it. I don't know how I would have carried on, even if...." he stops, wets the tongue that's gone completely dry and heavy, and restarts with a hollow sigh. "This place may not have offered a suitable upbringing, but at least you had the semblance of one." 

Oh. _Shit_. There it was. Yeah, he'd lost a lot, but he'd never known that he _had_ anything to lose. He was an orphan and that was the end of it. There were plenty of them in Fortuna; but they’d all thought they’d lost their families to demons, not vile humans. Yet Kyrie and Credo had been there, ready to offer him a piece of a family, free of charge, simply because they cared to. Because they saw something in him that he didn't see for nineteen years. 

Dante and Vergil, his uncle and his father... they had lost _everything_. It was a miracle they survived long enough to even be his family now. If they hadn't, there wouldn't _be_ a Nero here to be angry at them, to miss them, to laugh at or with them. 

What had nearly happened to Kyrie, what he stood a brief chance to stop from happening to Credo... _that_ had happened to their parents. And they were powerless to stop it. No wonder this family was so _fucked_ up. What wasn't their fault haunted them, and what was their fault just sowed more discord. So here they are, a trio of traumatized idiots stumbling around trying to figure out their fucked up lives in completely separate ways. _Of course_ they hardly got along! Nero wondered if there was any hope that they ever truly could. 

He almost wanted to laugh. Maybe with years of therapy, and that was if they could all stand to be in the same room for more than a few minutes. It would take work, and they would have to do their own parts. All of it, a big _if_. 

“Nero?” Vergil asks quietly, the smallest hint of emotion permeating his voice. Hesitation, Nero wanted to think. Nervousness? _Fear_ , even? 

"I don't know if I can forgive you. For _that_ anyway..." all his thoughts and words jumbled together in a cloud of fog from his long sigh. "You're right; there's too many ifs there, and I'm not totally mad at how things turned out. You might be off the hook for my arm now, just because." He shook the limb out and it responded strongly, all flesh as it had been when he was born, scaled and glowing when it had brought forth his demon, even metallic and hardened as the breakers. "It's not really a huge issue anymore." 

For the longest time, Vergil just stares. "...I see." 

A grin breaks out on Nero's face in melody with a fiendish thought: “You could give me the Yamato back—“ 

“Not likely.” 

"Then I don't know..." Nero rubbed at the back of his neck to find it already warm with all the words running through his veins. "Maybe stay for dinner rather than stand menacingly in my garage? Get to know Kyrie—if anyone can forgive anything, it's her. But she'll make you earn it, and if you can get on her good side.... then anything's possible." 

Vergil goes slack. Like, completely. His eyes are the widest Nero's ever seen them, even when he'd been in the midst of triggering for the first time in front of them. Back then, he never thought he'd see faces like his father's and uncle's ever again, and yet here he is, two-for-two. He wouldn't mind seeing it a few more times, especially if it meant they were more likely to listen to him. 

So Nero just lets himself breathe, brush past his father, not harshly, not quickly, and keeps going. 

Vergil still doesn't move, and Nero doesn't stop to hurry him up, but he knows they're okay. He just does. Something in his whacked-out nerves can sense the crunch of cold gravel and dead leaves before it starts. His dad isn't that dumb, really—just cursed with the same slowness as his twin. 

Nero just hates that other kind of slow—the one that requires actual waiting and effort that doesn't involve killing things. And the way they rumbled through half the island so fast, there won't be a demon brave enough to show its hide for weeks. Months, maybe. And then another shiver rumbles through his frame and he can only think of one thing: 

"God, you know what I could go for?" 

Vergil regards him with a single raised eyebrow. 

“Some breakfast.” 

Father frowns at son. "You should know that you don't need it. Even with how diluted your genes are." 

"What, don't tell me you've never craved a good breakfast?" 

Vergil paused. "Not in some time." 

Nero very much likes to avoid all these new 'orphaned father from the streets' thoughts, thank you very much. He kicks a few pebbles and watches them tumble down the hillside. "Well, what the hell kept you and Dante alive down under?" 

"The blood of our enemies." 

Nero stops and stares. 

"It was convenient, and we could." Vergil does everything but shrug. 

"Could doesn't mean _should_ ," Nero recited as the visage of Sister Xista and her fellows form in his mind, scolding him endlessly. And here he is, turning their very lessons towards his own father. A sickly part of his mind wonders just how much more damned irony his ridiculous life will toss at him. 

"C'mon," he hurries, brushing past his father and towards their return route. He knows it well, like the back of his hand—his left, anyway. Every inch of this island, despite its insanity, is familiar, fuzzy, embarrassing and infuriating all the same time. Just like his actual family, and the bustling ramshackle of a house that awaits them. 

They're going home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nero on the underworld's Yelp page: 0/10, negative 25 stars for every year my dad was trapped there, and a giant FUCK YOU for killing my grandma. heard the swords from here are cool tho.
> 
> Vergil's line is ofc from Blake, in auguries of innocence.
> 
> lore notes: this has gone around, but in case you didn't know, apparently throwing a katana's saya away is a move that's only supposed to be done when a guy knows he's about to lose/die, and its the last thing Vergil did before facing Mundus in the dmc3SE epilogue. here, I think of it more like tossing Verge aside for a bit to let V work.  
> DMC4's novel apparently brings up the theory that Nero's mom could have been an outsider who deliberately dumped Nero on Fortuna, hence why nobody knew of any pregnancies before he showed up. Obviously the special edition cutscene kinda retcons that, but I like a little mix of it--could she have just been more mobile than typical Fortunans? What would allow a girl from the church to go to and from the island long enough to hide a kid? [pilgrimages, of course!] but if we're also allowing Dan's own headcanon to come into play, that she wasn't just a one-night stand but in fact at least somewhat precious to Verge.... then she had to be intellectually equal to him (at least that he thinks lmao) and I feel like a professor-type would work!
> 
> anyway, thanks again for keeping up with this, and sorry I couldn't get it posted during the weekend :///


	18. we don't know what's good for us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long battle, comes the long rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is officially one year old! AN ENTIRE YEAR!! It's been wild and tough, but overall, I'm glad I wrote this, and I'm glad you all have kept reading it :)

> _it is a serious thing_   
> _just to be alive_   
> _on this fresh morning_   
> _in the broken world._
> 
> "Invitation," Mary Oliver 

**24 December 4:31 AM | Fortuna**

The garage is exactly the same. 

Shutters half-open, just high enough to see through and just low enough that one must duck their head to get in—there's not a piece of the picture that's noticeably different. The bent and torn shelves in the back, the strewn canisters and tools, posters fallen askew on the back wall. 

Even the gigantic stain in the middle of the floor, dark and discolored by time and countless attempts to scrub it. 

Just as before, Vergil stands still and waits. 

Nero strolls past it all and gets to the stairs before he starts goading. "Get in here, will you?" 

His father stalls. 

"C'mon!" Nero charges forward and yanks the shutter upward, just enough to clear his father's head. 

"You're positive?" Vergil finally asks. 

But his son, as ever, refuses to take no for an answer, if the deepening frown on his face is any clue. Nero does stop, for the smallest of seconds, eyes darting from the stain on the ground back to his father, as another dark-clothed figure in the brightening moonlight. 

"...Nico and the others should be here soon," he sighed. Not a definite invitation in, nor a refusal, but something nonetheless. 

Vergil relents. The rest of the night had been much the same. It's a new pattern he is none too fond of. 

He is slow to the stairs, and even slower through the door he never saw through last time. It leads to a snug kitchen—comparable to the size of the pantry they had in the old manor—that glows in the approaching daylight through kitchen curtains onto a ramshackle table full of mismatched chairs and settings, awaiting their use at the official start of the day. 

Nero walks past and settles into the couch in the adjoining living room, as small and niche as its neighbor. No fabrics or woods matched, let alone any of the knickknacks that decorated what little space they had. If there was any kind of theme throughout the house as a whole, it was the _lack_ of one. Their family would not have been caught dead in such furnishings; Vergil thinks. But the family was caught _dead_ regardless. What did the size and makings of a home matter if there was none left to live in it? The manor sat and languished for decades, her immaculate settings half-burnt and left to dust, until the Qliphoth ensured its ultimate destruction. But here is Nero's home, thrown together with any and all things he can manage, apparently, and it suits him. 

He cannot explain how, but Vergil knows without a shadow of a doubt that Nero belongs here. 

Before he can dwell on his own conclusion any longer, the young man in question reappears. Nero sighs into a heap on the lumpy couch, all the exhaustion and dirt flowing off him and into the air, pushed by the settling of mismatched cushions beneath him. Vergil follows its float through the room, from the light in the windows. He surveys the area until he settles into a tall armchair, the sturdiest thing he can see, and settles Yamato across his lap. 

His son with his keen, good sense, speaks. "Kyrie's been back since dark. Kids should still be asleep. I don't wanna wake them yet." 

Vergil nods, yet still his fingers fidget along Yamato's _saya_. By the time he can even think to ask another question, the light sound of Nero's breathing tickles his ears and he nearly wants to laugh. The boy falls asleep as easily as Dante, of course. That habit would be much harder to break him of than, say, his poor sword stances, but it could be excused. For now. 

Yet, here in the newborn dawn, the dark slayer finds little of interest. He certainly cannot sleep, and Nero would certainly not have it if he wandered through the house alone. So, he is left with this living room, in all its spare furnishings. 

The window nook to his right, complete with bench and a few frayed pillows, is a secluded enough space for any single adult. Perhaps a couple of kids, who certainly have left their marks here, if the paint and battered curtains have anything to say, but its quaint. He feels instinctively comfortable here, at least partly. Something about the angle of the light, the direction of the window and the size of the room—

 _No_. His favorite window seat is gone. This one is entirely different. 

In his train of thought, he is rarely without care, yet his foot slides sharply against the too-sleek carpet. His hands grip the edge of the nook too harshly, the aged wood creaking something fierce. In the calm of dawn, it feels loud, but a wide gaze around the room tells him otherwise. Nero is still asleep. The house remains sleepily quiet. But as he lifts his hand, the lip of the seat tries to come with it. 

Ah, his mind supplies, _storage_. Especially useful in a tiny, dilapidated house like this. He lifts it the rest of the way, part of him simply wanting to see, not caring for what he could possibly find inside, because he doesn't seek anything in particular, really, but. 

Its filled to the brim with books. Notes, a few scattered pens. The waft of aged papers waves to him like an old friend, if he'd ever had any, and soothes the very nerves he'd pushed aside earlier. 

He can tell by the dull and hardy spines and colors that these are a respectable collection—not meant for younger readers. Surely, Nero and Kyrie and whoever else added to the stash meant for these to remain hidden from the herd of children, as all their colorful and much more worn covers were readily scattered about the living room and beyond. This, this was mature reading, and not of Dante's preferred sort. Still, a fiendish smirk crawled up Vergil's jaw. He'd done similar when Dante still professed an interest in his books. _Too much interest_ , he'd lambasted him, as they fought needlessly over _Moby Dick_ and the like, only for his little brother to read two chapters and opt out when the fabled "monsters and heroes" didn't appear at once. He'd only feigned interest because it demanded so much of Vergil's interest—something Mother had to point out, after many of Vergil's complaints. 

"He only wants to spend time with you," she'd soothed him, with one hand on his back and the other on the spine of the book. "You're all that he has." She had said like it was the plainest thing in the world. 

At the time, it was. Just the three of them and the house in that big empty plot. Dante could only distract himself for so long, but Vergil could read them out of house and home and still be ravenous for more—until his stomach rudely informed him just how ravenous it was. Yet Mother employed a universal ban on reading at the table, because that was another tantrum from Dante waiting to happen. 

But Vergil didn't mind as much. He understood the rules and he followed them; his books would be there for him as soon as he had the time for his little sofa by the window. And when his little eyes did get tired, Dante would be there, waiting with wooden swords and legs that could circle the estate in mere minutes. 

Now Dante has his own distractions, and Nero is here. 

The titles don't stand out to him tremendously. There's a smattering of classics, some religious texts of the pedestrian kind, and some manuals that are surely Nicoletta's doing. Absently he opens one, and the world opens wide for he. 

_Poetry_ , it simply declares, and his attention is whisked forth. 

He does not recognize the author, and yet here it is. Not Blake, not another founder of verse or genre, but simpler, softer words. It's almost upsetting, initially, that these works are not the long, _Odyssey_ -like hero's journeys that had captivated his young self for so long. Instead, these brief pieces make him ravenous for the next work, and the next, until he has finished with the entire volume as the sun has finished its rise. 

The next thing he knows, Nero is standing just above him, arms crossed and fingers drumming on his sleeveless forearm. His gaze pins down his father like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar, or a book on the couch long past mealtime. 

"So," he starts casually, and Vergil can't sense any real anger in his voice, "you found my stash." 

"These are _yours_?" There's a tinge of shock to his voice he can't entirely excuse. Nero had clearly stated his dislike for books, inability to follow prose, disinterest in narrative—surely these were just offerings for his many houseguests? 

"Most of 'em," Nero leans over the window seat, but doesn't sit down, not next to his father. _Never_ , Vergil thinks, even as his frame leans into the adjoining wall and makes room. Still, he regards the stack of books with suspicion, coupled with his own perplexity. 

"I even marked the good ones," Nero points at the little blue post-its sticking out between the pages, as wrinkled and uneven as their very presence force the books to become. Vergil eyed them with distaste for a moment, before cracking open another spine to a random verse in particular: 

_Instructions for living a life:_   
_Pay attention_   
_Be astonished_   
_Tell about it_

How curious, how plain, yet... stirring? What exactly do these simple instructions stir within the dim heart of his? Is this what scarcely a dozen words can do to him, now? The last words that had done such, well.. 

"This isn't Blake," he blurts out. 

Vergil can hear his son's smirk. "It's not." 

"Yet... the prose...." he trails off as the words die in his throat. 

"It's a bit simple, I know, but everyone kept recommending it, and—" 

"No, it's very much like Blake. That much is clear." He flipped the cover over and scoured the appendix. The poet's name escaped his recognition, and an editor's note mentioned her recent passing, if the number of years held together correctly in his mind. 

"It's pretty recent, too. She would've published a lot of these when you were even younger than me." 

A single eyebrow of his father's shoots up, but he says nothing besides the usual, " _Ah_." 

"I just thought..." it's Nero's turn to lose his words, and who knew what else. Vergil can't say with any certainly that he recognizes the emotions passing through his son's face. The boy's not twisting up with frustration or snapping something witty, so he has little to go off of. _Melancholy_ , perhaps, is the only word that sticks to his mind. 

"Blake seemed okay, y'know? I didn't love it or hate it." He had just wanted to see exactly what a cold bastard like his dad and a cagey weirdo like V could have gotten from a 19th century English Romantic. It turned out Old English was pretty damn weird, and all that skipping bible study hadn't done his younger self any good, in the end. "So I tried to, uh, _broaden_ my horizons, a bit." 

A light bulb goes off alongside Vergil's temple. Nero continues scratching his neck and looking away just as his father tries desperately to identify the complex look of his eyes. 

"You can keep 'em, if you really wanna read 'em," he offered. This much he knows about his father in absolute. Swords; power; books; blue things; all add up to form Vergil, son of Sparda. Easy! If only the rest of the fissures gaping between them were as simple to fill. 

But Vergil's just quiet, as he regards the cover of the volume in his hands again. The newer, smooth leather of Nero's book practically begs to be cracked open again and again, like those of his youth. It had initially alarmed him, the sight and occasional creak of a new spine being cracked, but it only became easier with time. Then it became a blasphemous sight to see a book _without_ a worn spine; its insight lost to the oblivious and unrevealed to the curious. Suddenly, the weight of such upon his chest proves to be too much, and he feels compelled to reach into his coat pocket to alleviate it. 

"A fair trade, then." 

Nero blinks, and a familiar gold shimmer blinds him yet again. His father holds his unforgettable book out towards him, not tossing it, not callously leaving it behind, but calmly waiting for him to accept it. Or to refuse, just as the man had seemingly done all those weeks ago, in a dim, damp, crowded van. 

"N-no, it's yours. I just... held onto it." _For you; for safekeeping; because you told me to_ , he told himself, if not to clear the image of his father's rage and disappointment from their previous book exchange. 

"Yes, but clearly I should have been more specific. You still have work to do with it; I expect nothing less from my kin." 

"'course you do," Nero scoffed, but there wasn't a touch of malice in his tone. 

"Of course, you should strive to earn it this time. One cannot simply _read_. You must become a _reader_." 

There he was. All criticism with a side of sauce. Well, he did ask Sparda for a dad, as a kid, and here he was—straight from Sparda himself! He couldn't fault the guy for being a tad too literal. Nobody was _that_ perfect, except maybe Kyrie. 

"I can handle it," Nero asserts once again. Like had done, was doing, and could still do, father or no father. 

But Vergil doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, and again becomes that cool monolith that just belongs there, somehow. 

The air shifts, just for Kyrie to glide in with a new ray of sunlight and a trio of kids. 

"Morning," she greets, even as the children herd her into the opposite direction. 

Vergil and Nero nod. 

"Breakfast should be soon, if you two could set the table," she asked before she could be fully enveloped by chaos. 

Once again, Vergil waits for Nero to stand and motion for him. Again, he deigns to follow his son onto a battlefield wholly unfamiliar to him. Perhaps it would be a real trial by fire, with the way the kids were already scrambling underfoot, or perhaps it would be relatively mundane. The only way to find out would be to sit down and take part. 

If nothing else, it will prove to be a test of his own willpower, perhaps. 

Upon sight of the books still tucked under their arms, Kyrie whips around in a flash and zeroes in on them more fiercely than any of the children. 

"No reading at the table!" she tuts with a long spoon in hand. She'd never resort to violence, surely, but neither father nor son stood around to find out. 

Some things really never did change. 

* * *

**24 December 10:50 AM**

With the rush of breakfast ending, in came the new rush of the van, with the entire company of Devil May Cry in tow. Whatever exhaustion the racket in Red Grave may have caused was not brought with them, however, as Vergil lamented the sudden and complete loss of quiet necessary for any further reading. Nero braced himself for a storm surely more chaotic than the several they'd just weathered. 

"Hey, I didn't know it snowed out here!" Lady gapes at the light drizzle falling around them. 

"It usually doesn't stick," Nero corrects. They were just a tad too pacific-facing for it, though recent years were getting colder and warmer. 

"I didn't know they fixed the fountain, either!" Nico chortled with an elbow to Nero's arm. "Can you believe that?" 

"It's working?" Nero gaped between her and Vergil, who shared his confusion. 

"Yeah, we passed it on the way," she nodded alongside the other ladies. "Had a good flow goin, despite all the icicles." 

Mentally, he worked out the math and physics and all those subjects he never paid much attention to in school. He had no clue how it _could_ work, but he knew a few other things: It wasn't too far away. It wasn't impossible, despite everything else. The clergy would probably be out tomorrow, calling it a "holiday miracle" and other bullshit. But as usual, Nero would know otherwise. 

"I guess someone finally worked the kinks out of the plumbing," he realized, sharing a glance with his father. 

Vergil's knowing look escaped all of them, save maybe Dante, who knew better than to pick it out amidst it all. 

"Well!" Kyrie announced, apron on and dishrag in hand. "Who wants to help start the big dinner?" 

A round of hands shot up. Dante's stayed down until Trish and Lady took hold of each and raised them for him, despite the groan that tumbled free of his throat. Nero gave him a good smack about the back for good measure. Nobody defied Kyrie in this house and lived. _Nobody_. 

Vergil very smartly stood with the poise of a solider and waited. 

Nero decided right then that his father had some good sense after all—and he only had to beat _some_ of it into him! 

And together they went, their lovely leader issuing commands and recipes like her brother, the general before her. Nero had not felt quite so at home in, well... ever. 

* * *

**24 December 7:38 PM**

The fabled holiday goose does not disappoint, despite its near-coldness thanks to Nico's constant admiration. After the first few pictures, Nero had to nearly throw her out of the house just so everyone could eat. And then she had the gall to whine about destroying the damn thing, mourning the artistry of just simply _eating_ a platter like Kyrie's. 

It's _meant_ to be eaten, as she had to be reminded. Just like her Devil Breakers were meant to be broken, whether by demons or Nero's own design. If he simply used her first model of Overture forever, then, he wouldn't have gotten as much done, now would he? 

"No," Nico begrudgingly agreed, though Nero could see the gears turning like the curls in her hair, "I guess it's kinda the same." 

She ate like the rest of them after that, though she could still be caught sighing as the beautifully-browned meat dwindled to nothing but bones and garnish. 

The kids were nothing compared to handling half a dozen demon hunters at the same dinner table. Or rather, a couple separate tables pushed around so they could all fit in the tiny dining room. Nero and Kyrie had to sit next to the kids so they'd eat all their veggies and refrain from making a mess, while Nico and Vergil made up half of a winding conversation besides them. Across the way, Dante, Trish, and Lady made up what quickly became the _real_ kids' table, for all the bickering and mess that came from them. 

Trish and Lady at least were apologetic as they gathered up what trash they could, though Kyrie's unselfish instincts pushed them away to the living room with neat slices of fruitcake for dessert. 

And like even the most difficult of children, the devil hunters were appeased. How she did it, Nero could never quite tell. 

Vergil was still milling about, being held hostage by Nico's constant blathering, as Nero started gathering up the dishes. 

"Hey," he chirped as a brave thought formed in his mind, "why don't you clean up?" 

Vergil's gaze shot up instantly, desperation to escape their resident artist plain in even the coldest corners of his eyes. Whatever fascination he usually held for Nico had probably been expelled hours ago, and Nero had to stifle a laugh. Everyone learned about Nico's endless mouth eventually, but somehow his father had the most patience for it. That was enough torture for one night, at least. 

He wordlessly hefted the stack of dishes in front of his father and tapped Nico on the shoulder, ushering her away from her captive audience. If the guy couldn't pick up on some wordless hints this time, there really was no hope for them. But at the same time, maybe it would do well for Vergil to get back onto his feet. He certainly didn't want to find out what throwing the twins back together _with_ the foster kids would do to the house. 

The last sign he catches is a slight nod of his father's proud chin, and the CLACK of stacking porcelain. 

_Good, good_ , Nero thinks as he sets off to tackle the war brewing in the living room. 

Collecting all the dinnerware is easy enough, and Vergil is careful to sort it by size and volume when Kyrie brushes against him, her bird-like reflexes recoiling light and fast. 

"Excuse me!" she chirped as she nudged his pile aside with her own. Glasses towered threateningly around the counter, though she eased around all of them with a grace Vergil could admire. If only Nero had such a light, deliberate touch, he would be a more efficient hunter. At least he was clearly well-acquainted with the quality. 

"Don't mind me," he told her, gathering the last of the dishes about. Aimlessly, his eyes searched for a dish rag or some dry barrier between his velvet coat and the sink. 

"Here!" she held out a colorful apron of clearly-worn embroidery, with delicate little crosses that reminded Vergil far too much of the Force Edge. But he wasn't one to refuse such politeness, and Nero would certainly not take it well if he left the girl to tackle this chore all by herself. 

Together, they wash. Wordlessly, easily, and efficiently, Vergil rinses and dries after her thorough scrubbing, their piles leaving no space misused upon the counter. How they went through so many, he can't comprehend. Dinners in the old manor had never taken this long to clean up after, even when Eva punished one of them by forcing one twin the bear the usual chores of both. 

Still, he is not left to flounder in such nostalgia for long. 

"Sorry about my, uh, _aggression_ before," Kyrie chuckles as she juggles dishes about. "I usually ask the demons to leave before I resort to force." 

The very thought knots Vergil's brows together. Surely, not even the lowest of demon would listen to the light-hearted request of a mere girl. More likely, they could sense Nero's constant presence around her and wisely chose to disengage. 

"You truly believe you can plead with demons?" 

"Well, Nero's one, and he listens to me well enough." 

"Yes, but he's rather... unique." 

"As are you and Dante, right?" 

He concedes a nod. 

She settles her hands on her hips, neatly and firmly, sets her shoulders and faces him fully. Like, well, he would. They face each other as complete mirrors before she begins. 

"The other woman, Trish? Nero said she's a full demon, and she was nice as a nun when we were complete strangers! My own brother also became a demon at one point, but I never noticed." 

Vergil's mouth opens before he can stop himself. "Credo." 

"Yes!" her eyes light up like the dressed tree in the living room. "Nero told you about him?" 

_Technically, I met him_ , he could say, _or, imagined a version of him_. But the circumstances are too ridiculous, too complex. She certainly wouldn't believe him, and neither would anyone else for that matter. 

"I almost feel as though I met the man," he murmurs. Not quite the truth, not quite a lie. He can live with it, and none are the wiser. 

"I wish I could say the same for you," her smile thinned out and Vergil was almost sorry to see it go. "Nero didn't say much." 

Of course, there's nothing to tell. When he'd first discovered the truth as well, it was a simple fact, nothing more. Now, the very thought of the boy digs a gaping chasm between his first trip to this island and now, as the concept of time eats at him. Before, his momentum had always pushed him forward at speeds that weren't fast enough for his ambitious self; new power, new knowledge, new enemies to conquer. His goals were iron-clad trophies that merely waited to be claimed as his, because they rightfully were. Yet Nero belonged to Vergil from day zero, and he did not claim him, didn't even care to know that he _could_ have, and yet... 

Now, his mind does nothing but claw backwards: At failures, towards underestimated enemies, missed opportunities. Where Dante had once stood, equally a target, a regret, and motivator in his mind, Nero now stands, wearing his father's own glare and wielding the very power he'd sought for so long. 

"And Dante?" 

Kyrie shook her head, auburn ponytail following behind her like the rapid flapping of a bird's wings. 

Vergil's not shocked. But he is curious. "What would you expect them to say?" 

She thinks for a long moment, sinking her arms deep into the dishwater. "Something... only they would know." 

"But it's all irrelevant to you." 

Her neck craned like the bird of name. "Nero's family isn't irrelevant to me." 

"By sentiment, yes, but he's been more than clear that you and this... place," he motioned around the cramped, messy, modge-podge that passed for a kitchen, "are what he considers paramount." 

"That's true," she conceded, "but Nero's always had a bigger heart than he lets on... You'd be surprised how much room he'd be willing to make." 

_For you_ , she didn't say. Not that she would have. Not that he wanted her to. 

"I can't imagine where he would have found the capacity for that." 

Kyrie's grin grew a mile wide, and Vergil couldn't quite recall the last time he saw such an expression. On Nicoletta, perhaps, after she'd finished her latest 'artwork.' But he doesn't find himself uncomfortable with either at all, even as the rest of her face softens like a melody long-forgotten by his jaded ears. 

"I think I can guess." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does your... dim heart... heal or destroy? :,,,) i have bury the light to thank for my newfound motivation towards finishing this, so yes i'm going to seed as many refs to it as i can!
> 
> literary fun fact: Mary Oliver's work was once described as “Blake-eyed revelatory quality” which i didn't know before i picked those lines and FREAKED OUT when i did. I guess if you're a kid like Nero, who's perplexed by a big literary figure like Blake, you go to a library or do some googling and find some work like Oliver's. I was definitely looking for some more modern works that relate to Blake or similar themes from him, so I kinda hit it better than I meant to! But she is fantastic and I definitely recommend checking her work out if you're looking for Blake-level, beautiful stuff. 
> 
> the main goal was to start building a bridge between Nero and Vergil--he'd have a couple decades of reading to catch up on and Nero could definitely use some brushing up on his history. what better than poetry? 
> 
> once again, thanks for reading and let me know what you think! we're almost done! :,)


	19. here, here, my family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero does not let the year end without hearing a few resolutions from his family.

> _That time_   
> _I thought I could not_   
> _go any closer to grief_   
> _without dying_
> 
> _I went closer,_   
> _and I did not die._
> 
> Mary Oliver, "Heavy" 

**24 December 8:52 PM | Fortuna**

Nero always gets a bad feeling at night. At least, he thought he did. But tonight is very different from every dark sky that's ever passed over his starlit hair. 

It's the night of his very first family dinner, at home, with naught a soul missing (of those that he could possibly have beside him, at least). 

No quick, shitty, to-go meal in the back of the van while Nico swerves like a madwoman to the color commentary of the twins. A real, sit-down, spread-out, meal on solid ground, under a warm roof. 

A part of him thinks he's gone absolutely delirious, until Kyrie brushes a hand against his brow and asks if he has a fever. 

He honestly can't tell. 

Luckily, blessedly, wonderfully, she always knows just what to do. While the kids start to wind down from dinner firmly settled in their bellies, she ushers him to their back porch with the promise of a warm drink amidst the cool air. 

Nero is pliant under her guided hand, and he wouldn't have it any other way. It's gotten so stuffy and loud in the living room; he really just needs to remind himself what cold feels like. And with a brisk _hello_ from the first gust that meets his cheek, he's certainly not disappointed, or surprised. 

The full moon shines bright above him, just as it had earlier. but there is no vile witch trying to harness its power, nor demons emboldened by its zenith. the moon simply holds its position on the seamless blanket of sky, cushioned by small, jeweled companions. All that time in Red Grave, even in its half-destroyed state, had nearly made him forget just how many stars were exclusive to his island's horizon. 

This is a part of the night he wants to covet. No evil could dare hide from the all-seeing beacon of the moon, glowing just softly enough to beckon the fearful ever-closer to her might. In front of that same light he stands, equally as protected from and exposed to the darkness. 

The other part is divided into two and being shoved out the porch door behind him, barging in on the edge of his nerves. His reflexes still spark at their approach; those needle-thin instincts hovering above his spine like flint ready to strike kindling. 

Nero shoves all those sparks into one last, deep breath, and turns from the moonlight to face them. 

His father and uncle are a matching pair of fools caught under the light. 

Nero scoffs. "You two needed a breather too, huh?" 

Vergil opens his mouth, though no warm cloud dares to escape out into the cool air. 

Dante expertly interjects with an elbow perched onto his twin's shoulder. "It's been a helluva night." 

"Helluva _month_ ," Nero corrects. 

The frog lodged in his father's throat leaps free with a low cough. "All shreds of silence have been scarce, regardless." 

"Well," Nero reached for a more interesting place to scratch, lest those sparks in his spine try to light, "that'll happen when a buncha demons decide to make a power play." 

Dante traded his twin's shoulder for his nephew's, a firm weight leaned onto the kid's bones like it was nothing. 

"That's just what happens in the biz, y'know." 

"I know," Nero shook his uncle's arm off but could do nothing about the lopsided smirk plastered to his mug. 

"You sure do." 

He's doing it again. That weird sideways look that he'd done the whole time they'd chased each other around the island the first time, and every time they'd said goodbye since. Nero had over-analyzed every glance the guy had ever given him up until the Qliphoth, looking for some clue to the riddle of their resemblance, but it was pointless now. Dante seemed to only know how to act like an uncle after he'd already talked shit, or whenever Nero's back was turned. But, as Kyrie and a few other voices had dared, wasn't it better than nothing? 

The longer they stand there, a punk nephew glaring up at his clownish uncle, the deeper the moon's light sinks into their pale skin. It sends a shiver through Nero's spine, unwillingly, despite how cold he _isn't_. Then, the only aura cooler than the winter's chill edges closer, just slightly, but enough for his senses to curl with anticipation. 

"Are you through?" 

"...Yeah. Give my compliments to the chef, eh?" Dante turned back for the door. 

Nero's voice gains the sharp edge of his ghostly claws, as if reaching out and snatching his uncle by the neck. "You can do it yourself in the morning, after breakfast. There's no way she'll let you go without a meal for the road." 

"Alright, alright," Dante waved his arms in surrender, daring the icicles on the roof to nail him down to the spot. And Nero would add a few summoned swords if he had to. "Promise we won't stay in your hair much longer, kid." 

The night interjects with a strong gust of wind, bringing crisp new flurries with it. three pairs of blue eyes instinctively followed them, up and out over the yard. 

"Unless," Dante's bangs drift over his face so heavily, only the brightness of the moon can catch the grey in his hair and illuminate the fiendish look in his eye. "you wanna stick around?" 

Nero freezes as solidly as a Frost caught in a circle of Holy Knights. But his uncle isn't looking at him, no, that much is obvious. 

He's looking at Vergil. 

Said man merely glances over his shoulder, almost like he had for the first time as his wholly re-formed self, at the top of a tree of nightmares for them all. 

"Unlike some, I will not overstay my welcome," Vergil finally says. 

Nero wants to bonk the man on the side of that slicked-back floof that passed for hair. But he doesn't trust the thrum of his own nerves, or how Kyrie would react to anything that even looked like fighting so close to the house. 

"You wouldn't be here at _all_ if you weren't welcome, genius," he says instead. 

Vergil blinks, but still doesn't turn, his high collar covering for the rest of his stone-like features that may have had softer edges. 

But Nero steps forward, determined to chip away at the marble, even if he has to weather a few hits for it. 

"You've got a lotta reading to catch up on, don't you? 

"As do you." 

Nero nodded in tune to a melody that picked up speed on the winter's breath. Maybe it was just his ears, or the thrumming of his own heartbeat getting too loud to ignore. But for the love of his grandfather, he's not gonna let a little fear stop him now. 

"It might not look like it, but," Nero swept his arms out wide enough to encompass his own little slice of paradise, "we always have room here, for whoever needs it." 

Dante ducks his chin into a rolling laugh, one that would make Nero pissed if he couldn't feel the burst of warmth that radiated from his uncle's frame. The legendary devil hunter really is that easy. He'd only been blind to truth because he hadn't been ready to embrace it. Neither of them were, really. But that was a talk for another time, maybe when they were more loosened up in the shop or the van. 

Vergil is a pretzel wrapped up in his own knots, while also severing those that dare to approach. What could Nero do to make him see that strengthening those same knots would save them all the trouble? For as tight the knot on Yamato's strings had to be, Vergil had to know that there were much more merits to the ties that bind. 

Yet all Nero can do to communicate any of his thoughts is to channel them all into his glare, and wait. 

Eventually, his father clears his throat again. "...I suppose any room would be miles above what Dante could offer." 

"Keep those standards high, brother," his twin wagged his brows and finger. "There'll always be a spot with your name on it!" 

Vergil answered him with a scoff. "How generous of you to prop your gutter open for me." 

"Wouldn't do it for just anyone!" 

"I can't imagine who in their right mind would accept." 

"Really? 'Cause I think I'm lookin' right at him!" 

Nero just leans into the wall, on the edge of the warmth protected inside and the flurries that swarm them with cold, while his family bickers into the night. 

The snow falls, and what do they know, it sticks. 

* * *

**30 December 2:24 PM | Old Red Grave**

The house on the hill is less of a house and more of a hill these days. 

The roots of the Qliphoth had withered and disintegrated instantly upon being cut down in the underworld, but the cracks and hollows of their presence remained gaping open, as if the earth still strained to take more innocent blood with it. Really, it was oddly fitting that the surrounding blocks had been decimated so entirely that the house now remained in a clearing almost as empty as it had been in the youth of the Sons of Sparda. 

Truthfully, Red Grave had still been a small town during their boyhood, and needless to say it had ceased to exist when Sparda had first settled there. The legendary dark knight and his wife surely wouldn’t have chosen a bustling modern city to hide their family from the eyes of the underworld, but the bastion of progress had caught up to them nonetheless. Vergil couldn’t bring himself to imagine a reality where their family had survived, together and safe, to the city’s recent size and renown. Surely, their father would have demanded they move somewhere quieter and safer, or their mother would have scoffed at the vain qualities of big city life and asked for a slower scene. 

Instead, neither had ever gotten the choice. 

Under the smooth blanket of snow recently fallen, it almost looks peaceful. Seamless swaths of white plastered over the gaps in the roof, awkward angles of the façade, and led up the path to the doorway just as it had in the twins' youth. Somewhere under it all, a manor shaped like their former home was there, safely tucked away in a frozen, eternal slumber. 

Almost. 

It took only a second glance to see that when the snow melted, it would only push the gaps wider and rot the exposed wood. A lack of proper drainage in the front would probably result in a mossy covering far less tasteful than its original ivy tendrils. The house would wear all its history on its front, and what it could still manage to hide behind wood and stone would eventually fall away, like all things that had once been good in their lives. 

Vergil knows; he's done the research. 

Sparda Express' own additions to his father's files explain enough: In the immediate aftermath of the attack, the house was abandoned. Its residents were assumed dead, and when no extended family showed up to claim it, it was simply left. When the town began to rapidly expand into a city, many inquired on the ownership of the house and its surrounding land. The deed had fallen into possession of the city, who felt no need to restore the house, and tried to sell it as is. But because it was evident that a tragedy had occurred, buyers' interest in it waned. The city managed to sell off all the remaining land and the manor was left to be surrounded by urban cityscape alongside frightening rumors of the demise of its previous residents. 

How startling would it be to some, to find that those rumors held a far more chilling truth? 

He is the source of most of that truth, after all. But he just stands in place and watches as Nero wanders off to the side, searching for just the smallest hint of them. 

His son, walking through what had once been his grandmother's own garden. Now nothing more than the cracked roots of dead plants remained, crushed and frozen amid the cracked fissures of earth. 

Vergil can only shut his eyes for so long. 

And Dante will leave him alone for even less. 

"Kid find anything yet?" 

An annoyed snort left Vergil's nose. "You assume there is anything left to find." 

"Well, yeah, I saw a few things last time." 

Dante pointed his unshaven jaw at Nero's form, bustling around the remains of the entryway's mantle. Still, his twin could only scoff. 

"This entire endeavor is foolish." 

"Try telling _him_ that." 

Vergil crossed his arms with a huff. He had certainly tried, in the days preceding the trip, but the family stubbornness proved too strong within their youngest member. It was more curious to him as to _why_ Nero would be so apt to return to the same disaster-plagued city again and again. But as the boy turned back towards his father and uncle with a familiar, battered canvas under his left arm, neither twin could stop themselves from drawing back into their shells. 

Nero stopped, set the canvas down carefully, and pinned both of them down with eyes that held the glow of summoned swords. 

"Something like this should stay in the family, no?" 

Dante blanched like Vergil hadn't seen since they were children. It planted a fiendish smirk on Nero's jaw and the slightest upturn of Vergil's. 

But the son doesn't let his father off easy either. "Don't tell me there's nothing in the whole place you wouldn't want?" he asks. 

Vergil scoffs at the sentiment. "The only value left is in the land itself." 

Now its Dante's turn to bark out a laugh. "Yeah, but your name's on the deed, actually." 

Vergil and Nero turned right on him, matching eyes narrowed and mouths tight with suspicion. 

"What?" Dante's eyes widened under their combined might. "I had Morrison do some digging; he didn't wanna get involved in our personal stuff, but I knew he was curious and I kinda was, too. He found what the bank didn't have—Verge, he even found dad's _will_." 

The pace of the eldest son of Sparda is possessed as he all but teleports to his brother, eyes and mouth twisted as tightly as they could. 

"What," he gapes. 

All the light on Dante's face tightened a bit, honing right in on his twin. "Dad wanted everything split evenly between us, of course, but you can't just take a sword and cut the house in half!” 

Vergil's grip on Yamato tightened. "Watch me." 

Dante only laughed in his brother's face. "As much as I'd love to see you try, you'd just be screwing yourself! The house is supposed to be yours, and mine if you don't want it." 

"...Really." 

"Well, yeah, you're always bragging about being my big brother, so this time you actually get to reap it. Unless, you _don't_ want it?" 

"Well," Vergil’s eyes darted between his brother and son, "don't you?" 

Dante waved him off. "I already got my own place to worry about. And I _definitely_ don’t need any more bills." 

"Well, then," the dark slayer actually seemed to be grasping for words, if Nero's eyes and ears were working correctly. "I suppose it's an option." 

"Y'know, you might actually be in luck," Nero began. 

Vergil tilted his head. 

"This is one of the oldest parts of the city, so anything that wasn’t a historical landmark isn’t being rebuilt, and they say even the landowners of these blocks are just giving up on it." 

"Because of the Qliphoth." 

Nero nodded curtly. "It being gone doesn’t mean people aren’t still scared of it. This whole district is basically condemned now." 

"It already was. But I can hardly see why that’s good news." 

"It means nobody will bother you, if you decide to use the space. Hell, they might even _thank_ you." 

Vergil scoffed. "I doubt that." 

As if all the forces of the underworld aligned to spite him, Dante and Nero each gave him a lopsided grin, full of mockery. 

"I dunno, brother..." Dante drawled, giving his bead a casual itch. The glint of his eyes caught Nero's, as Vergil immediately knew this was where their few years of partnership would forever haunt him. 

"Humans can be pretty surprising," Nero finished. 

Vergil doesn't even consider contradicting them. 

* * *

**25 January 4:21 PM | Fortuna**

Nero all but demands it, so Vergil's stay in his home extends into the weeks, but it becomes a more difficult feat to keep track of him on and off the island. Turns out commanding him to leave had been a lot easier than telling to stay, but as long as he gets back in time to help Kyrie with the dishes, Nero doesn't get really pissed. 

"Where were you?" he asks, yet his father continues marching right past him, Yamato's glow fading slowly into its _saya_. 

Vergil settles into the reading nook before deigning to reply. "I paid the bank a visit." 

"The Holy Union?" 

"Sparda Express." 

A flash of that poor teller's frightened face blinks before Nero's eyes. "You didn't hurt anyone, did you?" he warned. 

Vergil bristled. "Not physically." 

"If you must know, it was only a brief stop. I spent far more time meeting with the broker." 

Nero squinted hard enough to force the fog in his brain to recede. Bank visits? Brokers? What had happened to his homicidal, power-hungry father, and when had he been replaced by a savvy businessman? 

"Do you mean Morrison?" 

Vergil leaned his head into half a nod, his eyes never leaving the pages of his book. 

Well, at least Nero knew the guy would vouch for Vergil's disappearances. Probably. Hopefully he wouldn't charge for a simple call to check. Morrison was so efficient; it was a wonder he kept Dante as a client for as long as he supposedly did. A guy as straight-forward as his father might've been a breath of fresh air for all the smoke in the guy's dealings. 

“What, you hanging out with the broker now?” 

“He is very effective, and he doesn’t entertain familiarity,” Vergil explained with his usual clarity. “Among Dante’s inner circle, it’s refreshing.” 

"What’d you get him to do?" 

"His network is vast; anything I require, he can simply point to. Anything required of a client of his, I can do. It’s simple." 

A light ticked on next to Nero's temple. "You’re working with him just like Dante does!" 

Vergil's face twisted into a knot. " _No_." 

"Call it what you want," Nero threw his arms up at his father. "It’s how you pay the bills, right?" 

Vergil concedes a displeased nod. 

Well, as long as someone in the family wasn't broke. They could probably keep clawing their way towards... wherever they were headed. Leave it to the geezers to stick together right under his nose. 

The trill RIIING of the phone pierced the room, stealing both father and son's attention. Nero reaches it with his usual uniformity, but the caller stops him still. Even Vergil can't help raise a brow at his son's lack of emotion. Instead, the boy moves first, reaching for a button on the receiver and holding the phone between them both. 

"Boys," Morrison's dusty baritone flowed into air like the smoke that always followed him, "I have good news." 

* * *

**31 January 8:48 AM | Capulet City**

When it turns out that there is indeed money in Sparda's name to found, Dante doesn't like the idea of handouts. He’s always earned for himself, give or take the consequences. Vergil insists his brother take enough to pay for utilities; surely, their parents would have intended for him to keep a roof over his head, at the very least. But the answer is still mostly no. So he enlists Morrison to arrange an account for the sole purpose of auto-paying on his rent behind his back. At least then, perhaps, the toilets will remain running, even if his little brother can't be bothered to hire a maid that isn't also a full-time college student. Trish is given strict instructions to keep an eye on the man's coat spending, however. 

Nero doesn't feel great about taking any of it—its _theirs_ , not his—but it's part of his inheritance too, technically. Kyrie would certainly never settle into a lavish life, and Nero would go crazy if he couldn't work, so they'd probably just donate it to the orphanage. Still, his father sternly tells him, he should get himself a suitable wardrobe if he is going to remain on the job. Just because Dante presented himself like a louse didn’t mean his nephew needed to as well. He wants to snap that Kyrie makes most of their clothes, that she always gets his measurements _just_ right and he didn’t have a care for current fashion... but it’s not _that_ that bothers him. 

_Well_ , Nero retorts, if they're going to act like an actual family now, they should be a legal one, too. At least, as much as they _can_. 

And that's when it comes out: Vergil and Dante, sons of Eva, don't legally exist. Sons of Sparda, even less so. Officially, they were declared dead alongside their mother thirty-five years prior. Unofficially, only curious neighbors and witnesses could account for any young boys being residents of the burned house, but human governments don't take "unofficially" for an answer. If they are to claim anything of their old home, even in pieces, they must emerge from nowhere. 

Dante is all too happy to put in an order with Morrison for some fake documents—Vergil scoffs at the thought of using the criminal underground to do their personal bidding; the Sons of Sparda are owed what they demand, human legal parameters aside—but it's necessary if he is to live a life, here amongst humans, as he had been born to. He's not particularly keen on it, he can't even say with any profound confidence that he'll _like_ it, but it's what he has. He has power equal to Dante, a body no longer falling apart, and the underworld can only scowl at his feet. What other ambitions does he have left to follow? To see that his son is a worthy successor? To right the wrongs done by their family name in the absence of Sparda? To restore the house that is rightfully theirs? The picture only begins to come into focus on the odd look that brushes across Nero's face as he's given the papers to sign for the first time—mostly awe, enlightened by disbelief and pure, unbridled confusion. 

He points at the paper in question. "What kind of name is this?" 

Vergil leans over and glances at the document. " _Redgrave_ is the ridiculous pseudonym Dante used at your age. We had to keep it in line with the deed of his business." 

"No," Nero points lower, where a pair of blank spaces list FATHER and SON next to their printed names, awaiting their signatures, "Alighieri." 

His father blinks. "That's the surname I picked." 

"Are you kidding me? What's wrong with Sparda?" 

Vergil blanches, wanting to list every reason: Sparda was merely their father's name, demons had no use for surnames, what with their preference of titles. But Nero has no taste for that, he knows. There's no need to start a fight over this.

"I didn't change my name the first time; I refuse to make the same mistake twice." 

Nero scoffed. "That's hard to believe." 

"Regardless," Vergil plucked the paper out of his son's idle hands and signed it quickly, his penmanship proving beautiful to behold and impossible to read. "This is the only way to assure things go smoothly in this blasted society, and I don't intend to encounter any further complications." He held out the document in one hand and the pen in the other. 

"Well, do you want to be my son or not?" 

Nero blanked, as it slowly dawned on him that this was a genuine question. His father's face didn't betray any emotion—not obviously, but he knew now how to look between the cracks; how the appearance of a dimple hinted at a smile, where his Cupid’s bow thinned in challenge or humor, when the slightest raise of a white brow queued a rise or pride. Vergil wasn’t a blank slate, his son knew for sure—and he absolutely didn't ask pointless questions. That much Nero had learned already. 

But this one is pointless to him. 

"Yeah," Nero breathed, and instantly his chest began to lighten. He took the pen and paper and signed with a heavier hand than he would have liked—the ink smudged on his hand and he forgot to dot the i's he wasn't used to writing, but it was his hand. His name, albeit with a little white lie awkwardly attached to it, right under his father's, to the left of his uncle's, punctuating a page headed by the signature of his grandfather. 

"Hey, is this Sparda's handwriting?" he gaped. The whole of Fortuna and legions of demonic enthusiasts would have killed to see what he was holding, but he didn't care. It wasn't for them, but for him and his father and uncle, and them _alone_. 

Vergil doesn't need to lean over this time. A thin smirk escapes from his hold even as he glances away. "It's nice, isn't it?" 

"It looks like it's printed!" 

"I always thought he spent the ages learning it from the masters. He never confirmed my suspicions, however." 

"Well, two thousand years is a lotta time to kill." 

"I don't believe it ever intimidated him." 

"Why not?" 

"The only thing that ever intimidated him was my mother." 

Vergil reached for a spot on his collar, just below his turtleneck but above the first button of his vest. A gaping spot upon his chest where his hand aimlessly clutches and then curls shut, empty. 

Nero instinctively glances down at his necklace; silver wings that Kyrie couldn't have possibly predicted fit so well, wrapped around the smallest glint of a ruby. His mouth opens with a question, a sentence, and a joke, all at once—but he closes it before he dares. They'll get wherever they need to be for those questions and answers at some point. 

They will. 

* * *

**31 January 12:34 PM | Old Red Grave**

The iron gates lie askew on the old stone pathway, crackled and crumbling beyond recognition, but everything beyond that and the ruined yard held the loosely-formed puzzle pieces of the Sparda manor, greeting the group of them. 

Morrison makes a big show of kicking one of the broken doors aside and kneeling to stab a key in what was once a lock, exaggeratedly straining to hear a click. When he doesn't hear anything, he just shrugs and flicks the key over to Vergil, who catches it in a huff. 

"Congratulations, boys," the broker crooned. "This priceless piece of crumbling property in the worst part of the city with absolutely no working utilities is now yours!" 

"Thanks, Morrison," Dante actually shakes the man's hand and Nero finds himself stumbling on his way to find a part of the entryway he can actually lean on. Vergil is nonplussed. 

"Just let me know if you need any more paperwork," the broker reminded them as he already turned his back. "I can find anything for you: taxes, social security, even birth certificates." 

"No thank you," Vergil huffed. 

Morrison tipped his hat and sauntered down the broken lane, out of mind and sight. 

"Y’know, I'm beginning to see the upside of this place," Dante chuckled. 

Only Nero took the bait. "What?" 

"No neighbors!" his own laughter sent him keeling over as father and son rolled their eyes. "Not for miles!" 

This time, it was Dante that wandered off around the property, lost to his own humor and thoughts, while Vergil and Nero lagged behind. Nothing was much different since their previous visit, despite winter's increasing wounds. Still, a different kind of curiosity eats at Nero, and he knows he can only glance away from his father for so long. 

"So," he starts, "what are you gonna do? Besides fixing this place up?" 

"I have a meeting with a stockbroker later, actually," Vergil explained. 

"Using the trust fund?" 

"Of course. Sparda did such in order to keep it safe for us; leaving money to flounder in a bank is foolish these days." 

Silence fell between them again, only the wind whistling between the thinnest holes in the exposed lumber. Nero leaned into a long stretch of his hands, curling his fingers together and leaving them as locked as the thoughts flying through his head. Thinking of Sparda in any context other than god or legendary dark knight still didn't quite compute. 

Vergil, astoundingly, is the one that leans forward first. "You should do the same. I can arrange it, if you like." 

"I don't get much of that money stuff..." Nero murmured with a scratch at the bridge of his nose. "I failed econ in school." 

His father's face scrunched up with paternal distaste. "Whyever for?" 

"Kyrie was in my class." 

"Well, then," Vergil sighed. Nero could almost make out the slight upturn of those rare laughter lines. Or maybe the guy was finally getting some real wrinkles. Either way. "You should repay her by investing in your future. Are you going to stay in that house forever? Does she want a nice wedding? Do you plan for more children?" 

"Shut the hell up, old man!" Nero puttered through reddening cheeks. "I'll do what I want when I want to, alright! Jeez..." 

His father frowned. "It's practicality. You have much at stake. Without the means to protect--" 

Nero waved him off, his face growing serious. "I _know_ that." 

"Good." 

The ever-present silence returned to blanket the two of them, even stretching over the open maw of the ruined entryway. There wasn't anything left to find in the remains of the house, they already knew, and even Nero's curiosity had long-waned. Only the air and land itself were their companions here, abandoned from any consistent human or demon contact. 

"Man," Nero finally breathes, allowing the rush of cool air through the house to wash over him. "There's no space on the island big enough to be this clear." 

"That’s how it was, before. Nothing but green for miles." 

"Just like the illusion?" 

"Yes," Vergil confirmed. "That was the visage of the family manor. As it was while Dante and I were growing up. 

"I remember. It looked nice." 

"It was." 

_Maybe_ , the warmth of the thought spread slowly through Nero's spine, nearly giving him a shiver, _it can be like that again_. Parts of it are still standing; stuff is replaceable. 

"If you put in the work..." he began, "it could really be something. If you ask nicely, I might even help." 

Vergil says nothing with words, but the slight tilt of his brows and thinning of his lips say enough. On this, his son would give him plenty of space. 

The van pulls up beyond the gate, honking obnoxiously and screeching to a halt in what was once a well-manicured shrub. There's a round of shouting—Dante and Nico's voices stand out but when he strains, he can hear the softest stiletto balancing out their rhythm. There's a flash of what's certainly lightning from inside the van, causing a crescendo of screaming to erupt alongside the slamming of a door. Blonde, raven, and auburn mops come spilling out onto the property, the rest of their persons in various states of disarray. The chaos is punctuated by mocking laughter, and immediately after, a little gunfire. 

All of it makes Nero shake his head and laugh. 

"We’ve got plenty of time." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would you believe i actually like Sparda as their last name? i just really wanted to give verge a crack at making up yet another silly cover name lmao
> 
> i once again clowned myself into thinking this was finished for two weeks, then pulled my hair out trying to make sure i had all the right emotional tones down while double-checking for any plot thread i unintentionally left hanging AND i got hit with an awful brain fog that could only be cured by botw :////
> 
> anyways, just the epilogue to go! and it'll be going up tomorrow (today? what are timezones??) bc ao3 does a dumb thing where it shifts all your stats over to the year you finish something, not the year you started it, and i'd like to leave this one here if thats ok lol. the little 'universe' of this fic won't get left behind, don't worry! :D


	20. not much, but all I would ask for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew observe an anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a sorta double-update, so if you read chapter 18 last--go back for 19! its a lot longer with a few important details you don't wanna miss! :)

> _Thrice happy meeting!_   
> _Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more!_   
> _’Tis_ _but a night, a long and moonless night;_   
> _We make The Grave our bed, and then are gone!_
> 
> _The Grave,_ Robert Blair   
> 

FIVE MONTHS LATER 

**15 June 9:19 AM | Old Red Grave**

His morning tea is just hitting its perfect temperature—an ample amount of time since it finished brewing, a good breeze coming through the window, just a few minutes sitting in the mug—when the creak of the doors draws his attention away. He frowns. Just a few more minutes and the tea would start to get cold; the rest of his schedule would be thrown off if he had to brew another. 

"Dad!" 

Vergil all but leaps out of his seat and finds his lips curling up as makes his way to the top of the stairs, his son awaiting him at the bottom. 

"Nero?" 

"Get out here!" 

"What is this about?" his brows crinkled as he deliberately took the stairs at a slow pace. "You don't usually show your face this early." 

"Come outside and you'll see, old man," Nero tried and failed to hide a devilish smirk. "Dante's gonna kick your ass if you don't." 

"Dante is _never_ awake at this hour!" 

"It's a special occasion," another laugh snuck out and Nero ran back out the door as quickly as he came, leaving his father to only shake his head. 

Vergil sighs. He has half a mind to simply remain inside, finish his tea, and force his son and brother to drag him outside if they want his attention so badly. Couldn't they have had the courtesy to call ahead? The phone lines were still excellent, as he'd checked. But then the obnoxious horn of the van echoes out, and he knows the easiest option is to at least see what they're planning. Hesitantly, he's holding on to the double doors—antique oak lacquered to a shine that caught the morning sunlight and illuminated the delicately inlaid Victorian-era carving; a true steal considering the dump where he'd found it. They're heavy and solid underneath his hands, a good counterweight if Dante decided to throw his own weight around, and an easy escape if one of Nico's pranks was awaiting him. 

"I don't see why--" he starts to say. 

Instead, the van's door gapes open, Dante at the helm with a balloon bouquet in one hand and a sundae in the other, flanked by Nico carrying a pile of boxes much taller than she, Kyrie holding a delicate vase of grand flowers, and Nero, bent over covering something with the hem of his jacket. 

"I see," though Vergil is no less confused than he is concerned. 

"You're not _that_ dense, are you brother?" Dante cocked his head with a mocking grin. "Don't you know what day it is?" 

"I believe it's the first of the month. Do you mean to celebrate paying your rent on time?" 

A laugh tore through Nico's gut and even Kyrie had to stifle a giggle. Dante's outrageous smile lessens to a small smirk. In front of him, slowly making his way towards his father is Nero, who finally pulls his jacket away from the object in his hands. Its small, increasingly delicate, and smells of smoke and... chocolate? 

Nero presents it to his father, a small one-sided smile highlighting his dimples. A single muffin with a small blue candle perched on its crown, a tiny flame dancing wildly in the morning breeze. 

"Happy birthday," Nero's voice is soft, reverent. Sincere. 

But Vergil is still nothing but confusion. He locks eyes with Dante, who scurries on over with his shit-eating grin back to arms. 

"Our birthday was in February," he reminds them. It had been a wild affair, at Devil May Cry of course, and Vergil had hardly partaken in any of the festivities besides standing next to Dante while the room serenaded them horrifically off-key. Vergil let Dante blow out the candles that time. He didn't have want or need to. 

Nero's dimples disappear and he scratches his nose. "I know. But it was more like _Dante's_ party, don't you think? We'll do better next year, but, uh... this should kinda make up for it." 

"I still fail to see why _today_ , of all days," 

"You really don't remember, _V_?" 

"Oh," he gapes. He hadn't been paying attention to the date, not then. It was the last thing on his mind, behind a host of other, ever-increasing things. "I hardly think that qualifies." 

Nero sighed. "Just blow out the damn candle, old man." 

"Don't forget to make a wish!" Kyrie piped up, the sunflowers and roses in her grasp bobbing gracefully with her smile. Nico was grinning crookedly at her side, the early morning sun greeting Vergil painfully from the glare of her glasses. 

He made a very pointed face at Nero, his son, who promptly used his hereditary power to send back one of his own. With a sigh, Vergil relented and blew lightly at the candle, his brows crinkling when the tiny flame refused to go out. In the corner of his eye, he could see a couple shoulders keel over in hysterics, but for his own temper (and his son's) he ignored them and blew a slightly stronger breeze at the offending pastry. It went out. 

All at once, a small chorus of applause engulfed his ears, alongside the distinctive shutter of a camera. 

Reflexively he whirled around, eyes narrowing at the source: Trish and Lady in the open doorway of the manor, smug faces and sunglasses at arms. 

"You really shouldn't leave the backdoor open, Vergil," Trish tsked. 

"I did not." he seethed. 

"Oh, then where did I find this spare key?" Lady feigned, dangling the offending keychain off her thumb. 

The legendary devil hunter waved without shame. "My bad, brother!" 

Vergil took "Dante, you have three seconds to get yourself and your rabble off of my property--!" 

"Hey, my name's still on the deed! I have rights!" 

"Not in combat, you don't!" 

The twins leapt at the each other, blades drawn in a flash of blue and red light. No proper combat arena formed around them, save for the circle of sighs that their captive audience gave. 

"Nero, help me out!" Dante called as he blocked Yamato's strikes. 

Lounging on the van's hubcap, the young devil hunter yawned with fiendish exaggeration. "Nah, I'm good." 

"Uncle Dante _needs_ you, kid!" 

"Who said I'm on your side?" 

Dante's eyes went wide and his jaw lifted challengingly. "Ohhh, I see how it is!" 

Vergil turned and addressed Nero, casually holding Yamato in place with a thin smirk. "Well, son, will you help fulfill your father's wish to defeat your uncle?" 

Nero's eyes narrowed. "You didn't really wish for that." 

"It was at the top of my shortlist." 

"What else was there?" 

Vergil paused, effortlessly parried his brother into the dirt, and re-sheathed Yamato with his usual flourish. "I'm afraid I cannot say." 

"Fuck off, old man," Nero's scoff quickly rolled into a soft laugh, "you are _not_ that superstitious." 

Vergil left Dante to linger on the ground and joined his son's side, a respectable distance between them, still, but close enough to linger in peace. Nero held out the still-untouched muffin with the semblance of a smile. 

"Perhaps not," Vergil reached out and took it, thinking back to his now-cold cup of tea and ruined plans for the day. The sitting room's lighting was going to have to be fixed another day, and he supposed he could finish painting the guest room at any time. But he could see past the smug face of his son to spy Nico and Lady unfolding a set of tables and chairs on the lawn—which he just had seeded _yesterday_ —followed by Kyrie and Trish laying out place settings for what smelled like a breakfast significantly fresher and more appetizing than his typical earl grey and toast. 

"But fate shouldn't be tempted so," Vergil finished. 

Nero met that steel gaze, nodded, and reached for his father's shoulder. Instinct screamed at Vergil to rear back, shake off any semblance of help, or remain a statue still in place. But those instincts were so much more quiet now, after months spent in his reading nook, at countless dinner tables, on rumbling seats in the back of the van. 

Vergil allowed himself to be pulled back into the embrace of others, at last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's curtains! on my first and longest multi-chapter! jfc!!
> 
> for years I assumed I couldn't do it or didn't see much point in fandoms with MUCH bigger followings, but I took the plunge after 6ish months of aimless writing and here it is! god, it was scary but its done and I cant imagine writing this much again lmao. i do have my fic playlist to thank/blame for this whole thing happening, so if you recognize any of the lyrics/titles, you'll see exactly why ;) https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5m8A0qqdg0FeW0rBmsYBQS?si=TuYiWkIASr2W6Ix0JxCwFg
> 
> thank you all for going on this wild Sparda family field trip with me! there's definitely some fun little peeks into this post-canon world I have planned still, but for my sake they'll get their due time and effort instead of panicked screaming at my own imposed deadlines lol
> 
> happy new year! (and vergil special edition :)


End file.
